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^ ,„i„  ,.«s  - B-  f".*  <"  « -'  ,, 

anri  creatures  of  sorcery- 

e)  All  of  the  above. 


History  mixed  with  fantasy 
yields  an  extraordinary 
new  adventure  by  the 
acclaimed  author  of 
The  Waterborn  and 
The  Biackcod. 


cjs^y 


A Del  Rey 
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h frc. 


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Slories  That  Deflne  Imagination 
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After  flve  hundred  centuries  of  darkness, 
the  power  of  good  is  stirring  again. 


Reborn  in  the  chiid  Elena,  the  Magic  of 
the  Red  Fist  can  save  the  land  of  Alasea. 


But  first,  Elena  must  save  herself...from 
the  Dark  Lord’s  sentence  of  death. 


BOOK 
ONE  OF 


- TraB..  ,1 
BANNED'- 
A^DTHE' 
MmiHEU 


A thrilling  adventure  of  dazzling  magic 
and  searing  prophecy  is  coming. 


THE 


MAGAZINE 


Fantasf&ScienceFiction 

April*  49th  Year  of  Publication 


NOVELETS 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE 
HEART  OF  A CHILD 

6 

Richard  Bowes 

HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 

65 

Jacquelyn  Hooper 

SHORT  STORIES 

STRAIGHT  CHANGES 

48 

Rick  Wilber 

TALL  ONE 

93 

K.D.  Wentworth 

REVENGE 

112 

Michael  Blumlein 

MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 

143 

Michael  Swanwick 

DEPARTMENTS 

BOOKS  TO  LOOK  FOR 

36 

Charles  de  Lint 

BOOKS 

41 

Elizabeth  Hand 

EDITOR’S  RECOMMENDATIONS 

46 

Gordon  Van  Gelder 

HLMS:  KEN  AND  BARBIE  IN  THE 
HOUSE  OF  BUGGIN' 

88 

Kathi  Maio 

A SCIENTIST'S  NOTEBOOK: 

BOOM  AND  ZOOM 

132 

Gregory  Benford 

CARTOONS:  Bill  Long  (40);  S.  Harris  (64). 

COVER  BY  WILLIAM  WARD  BEECHER  FOR  "SO  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD." 


EDWARD  L.  FERMAN,  Publisher  GORDON  VAN  GELDER,  Editor 

CHERYL  CASS,  Circulation  Manager  AUDREY  FERMAN,  Assistant  Publisher 

ROBIN  O'CONNOR,  Assistant  Editor  HARLAN  ELLISON,  Film  Editor 

The  Magazine  of  Fantasy  & Science  Fiction  (ISSN  1095-8258),  Volume  94,  No.  4,  Whole  No.  561,  April 
1998 . Published  monthly  except  for  a combined  October/November  issue  by  Mercury  Press,  Inc.  at  $2 .99  per 
copy.  Annual  subscription  $33.97;  $38.97  outside  of  the  U.S.  (Canadian  subscribers:  please  remit  in  U.S. 
dollars.)  Postmaster:  send  form  3579  to  Fantasy  & Science  Fiction,  143  Cream  Hill  Rd.,  West  Cornwall, 
CT  06796.  Publication  office,  143  Cream  Hill  Rd.,  West  Cornwall,  CT  06796.  Periodical  postage  paid 
at  West  Cornwall,  CT  06796,  and  at  additional  mailing  offices.  Printed  in  U.S. A.  Copyright  €>  1998  by 
Mercury  Press,  Inc.  All  rights,  including  trai^lations  into  other  languages,  reserved. 

GENERAL  OFFICE:  143  CREAM  HILL  RD.,  WEST  CORNWALL,  CT  06796 
EDITORIAL  OFFICE:  PO  BOX  1806,  MADISON  SQUARE  STATION,  NEW  YORK,  NY  10159 


In  a perfect  world  based  on  the  past, 

the  greatest  threat  of  all  is  the  future.... 


B'l  Bto^s  mdNfcSt  he’s  lefeometluti^m  ^ur 

and  again:  a ckarcriira^xSSS^iig  oCKow  noljifity;'  ' 


■"•‘■OtsiSti  Sa;wtOa'(fe:H^yand'He^ufe^'!ft^d--^vtrming^a£thc^j0f 


A Del  !^)i^^Sar5cover 
On  sale  in  March 


Contests 


iSaeoafOffCTliBgtm 
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free  hook  previews 


^|0n'i^c>^rXli^Bt6^iiii^e^yiilu^Groa}i  ] 


Last  year  we  published  “Streetcar  Dreams,  ” which  we  thought  would  be  Rick 
Bowes' s final  Kevin  Grierson  story  to  appear  before  the  tales  were  assembled  into 
book  form.  Well,  here  at  F&SF  (much  like  in  Grierson's  life),  things  don't  always 
go  according  to  plan.  Minions  of  the  Moon,  the  novel  formed  from  such  memo- 
rable tales  as  “At  Darlington's”  and  “On  Death  and  the  Deuce,  ” is  due  to  hit  the 
bookstore  shelves  in  about  six  months.  In  the  meantime,  let's  hop  on  the  merry- 
go-round  of  Kevin  Grierson's  life  one  last  time  and  see  if  that  brass  ring  is  in 
reach... 


So  Many  Miles  to  the 
Heart  of  a Child 


By  Richard  Bowes 


1. 


N 


EW  YORK  CITY  TWENTY 

years  ago  was  a merry-go-round.  Ev- 
eryone felt  that  as  we  spun  through 
the  nights  and  days. 


On  a certain  night  in  those  carousel  years  of  the  late  seventies,  I 
awoke  from  a dream  of  light  and  motion,  looked  down  at  George  Halle 
with  his  head  resting  on  my  groin  and  knew  we  were  being  watched. 
Naturally,  I first  thought  it  was  my  Shadow. 

My  name  is  Kevin  Grierson,  and  I've  been  stalked  by  my  doppelganger 
for  as  long  as  I can  remember.  At  the  point  of  my  waking  up  that  night.  I'd 
been  clean  and  sober  for  a few  years.  A wise  man  had  taught  me  to 
recognize  my  double  as  the  embodiment  of  my  addictions,  of  my  will  to 
self  destruction.  Since  then  my  Shadow  and  I had  kept  our  distance. 

In  my  roaring  days,  I would  awaken  strung  out,  hungover,  to  feel  the 
cold  tingle  of  my  Shadow's  contempt.  Back  then,  he  was  in  total  control 
of  our  lives  and  we  both  knew  it. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


7 


This  time,  the  one  watching  felt  different.  If  it  was  my  Shadow,  he 
seemed  somehow  hesitant,  almost  scared  by  what  he  saw. 

When  I woke  up  all  the  way  and  looked  around,  though,  the  only  one 
in  the  room  with  me  was  George,  fuzzy  and  compact,  a businesslike 
medium-sized  bear.  My  legs  entwined  with  his,  my  hand  against  his  dark 
shoulder  looked  pale.  I watched  him  sleep  in  the  slatted  light  from  the 
street  and  marveled  that  my  peaceful  companion  had  a full  round  soul 
when  I had  only  a sliver  of  one. 

Despite  all  my  wonder  and  worship,  though,  George  and  I were  long 
past  those  moments  when  my  spine  felt  like  an  arrow  shot  at  the  sun  or 
anywhere  near  it.  In  bed,  I paid  him  back  with  sex  for  the  pleasure  and 
generosity  of  his  company.  But  with  each  passing  season  the  occasions 
grew  more  frequent  when  I awoke  feeling  empty  and  alien. 

That  night,  a cry  came  from  the  next  room.  Not  the  voice  of  a small 
child,  but  not  that  of  an  adult  either.  George  stirred  and  I knew  that,  if  he 
heard  it  again,  he'd  be  awake  and  concerned. 

Remembering  to  put  on  a robe,  I went  to  look.  For  privacy  George  had 
arranged  screens  at  one  end  of  the  living  room.  Behind  them,  on  the  couch, 
tangled  in  a sheet,  skinny,  long-haired,  was  Scott  Callendar,  fourteen.  He 
lay  facedown  in  a pair  of  the  beloved  surfer  jams  we  hoped  he  took  off  in 
the  shower  but  weren't  sure. 

Blanche,  George's  elegant  and  reserved  Siamese  dowager,  curled 
above  Scott's  head.  Since  the  kid  had  arrived  for  a barely  announced  visit 
two  weeks  before,  the  cat  had  attached  herself  to  him  like  a familiar. 

As  I stood  over  him,  Scott,  still  asleep,  twisted  his  head  like  he  was 
shaking  away  a dream.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  I caught  a spark  like 
a firefly.  Blanche's  eyes  narrowed  as  she  scanned  the  dark  corners,  tail 
twitching.  She  watched  through  slits  as  I adjusted  the  sheet  over  the  kid. 

Scott  moaned,  his  muscles  rigid.  My  own  father  was  dead  before  I 
knew  him.  And  seeing  the  kid  like  this,  I felt,  with  heart  in  throat,  that  his 
life  was  in  my  hands.  Carefully  supervised  by  Blanche,  I stroked  his  neck 
and  whispered,  "Just  a nightmare,"  until  I felt  him  relax.  When  I looked 
around,  there  was  no  trace  of  the  fiery  spark. 

Years  before,  back  at  college,  I had  awakened  to  feel  my  Shadow 
watching  me.  That  night,  I lay  next  to  a girl  my  age  named  Sarah  Bryce. 
Time  spun  on.  A guy  named  Scott  Callendar  appeared  on  the  scene  and 


8 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


married  Sarah.  Scotty  himself  showed  up  a year  or  so  after  that.  He  amazed 
me  from  the  moment  he  was  born. 

Scott  Junior  and  I had  in  common  dark  legacies.  Scott's  father  lived  on 
speed  and  violence.  He  died  in  a fiery  motorcycle  crash  and  I can't  say  I was 
blameless  in  that.  But  I can't  say  he  was  entirely  gone  either.  He  left 
behind  a little  family  memento,  a book  called  A Garland  Knot  for 
Children. 

Those  times  that  Scotty  needed  help,  I did  my  best  for  him.  When 
Sarah  Callendar  remarried,  George  and  I attended  the  wedding.  The  new 
husband,  unlike  the  first,  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  guy  who  was  inclined 
to  set  the  kid  on  fire  for  kicks  or  fly  to  eternity  on  a flaming  motorcycle. 
The  three  of  them  moved  to  the  South  Shore  of  Long  Island. 

As  unofficial  godfather,  I sent  him  birthday  and  Christmas  presents: 
toys  at  first,  then  checks.  I saw  him  rarely  enough  to  be  shocked  each  time 
at  how  tall  he  had  gotten.  And  I waited. 

The  call  came  one  morning.  Scotty's  voice  was  half  changed.  Sound- 
ing desperate  and  choked,  like  he  was  afraid  someone  might  overhear,  he 
asked  if  he  could  visit.  Before  clearing  it  with  his  mother,  I asked  George 
who,  bless  him,  said  yes  without  hesitation. 

His  mother  told  me,  "Getting  rid  of  him  for  a couple  of  weeks  just 
might  keep  me  sane.  If  he  gets  to  be  too  much,  is  that  military  school  they 
sent  you  to  still  in  business?" 

Too  old  for  camp,  too  tough  for  the  Hamptons,  was  my  take  when 
Scott  showed  up.  He  brought  a skateboard  and  a duffle  bag  that  seemed  to 
be  stuffed  entirely  with  T-shirts.  But  he  didn't  bring  A Garland  Knot  for 
Children.  Believe  me,  I checked. 

Scotty  was  a little  reserved  around  me.  And  I guess  I wasn't  fully 
prepared  to  deal  with  a haunted  fourteen-year-old.  But  George  immedi- 
ately hired  the  kid  for  two  dollars  an  hour  and  put  him  to  work  preparing 
for  our  big  Disney  sale.  George  and  I had  opened  HALF  REMEMBERED 
THINGS,  selling  antique  toys,  a little  over  a year  before.  Scott  followed 
my  partner  like  a puppy.  Children  would  have  saved  our  marriage,  I 
understand  now. 

When  I crawled  back  into  bed  after  checking  on  Scott  that  night, 
George,  still  asleep,  asked,  "'S  all  right?"  I whispered  yes. 

Even  if  he  had  been  awake,  what  was  I going  to  say?  "Georgie,  the 


Is  there  a secret  world  of  cats? 


A world  whose  battle  with  evi 


could  aftcct 


our  own 


If  so...who  shall  be  its  champion* 


AN  ENTHRALLING  EPIC  OF  A TALE/ 

— William  Horw'ood,  author  of  Duncton  Wood 


W On  Sale  in  March 

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10 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


kid's  haunted.  His  late  father  is  this  kind  of  flaming  match-head.  But  his 
son  can  summon  him  through  this  enchanted  book.  Scott  Callendar  Sr. 
has  it  in  for  me,  by  the  way.  Just  because  he  knows  I contributed  to  his 
death.  Some  ghosts  will  never  learn  to  lie  down." 

No,  the  beauty  of  George,  like  Sarah  long  before  him,  was  his  being 
so  warmly  mundane.  That  was  enough  to  make  me  snuggle  up  against  him 
in  the  air-conditioned  chill. 

Not  enough  to  keep  me  faithful,  or  even  nice  to  him,  of  course.  The 
romance  dribbled  out  of  our  relationship  and  our  partnership  almost  sank 
in  ethical  differences.  In  those  years,  I grew  and  trimmed  a beard  just  like 
a hundred  thousand  other  guys  my  age.  We  were  all  timeless,  interchange- 
able, smooth  as  glass. 

The  next  morning,  or  one  shortly  thereafter,  I spent  at  the  store 
unpacking  Donald  Duck  toothbrushes  and  coloring  books . Our  Disney  ana 
Sale  was  make  or  break  for  us.  George  and  Scotty  were  doing  a window 
arrangement,  stringing  an  inflatable  Dumbo  so  that  it  flew  above  a Mickey 
Mouse  plate  like  the  cow  sailing  over  the  moon. 

For  our  partnership  in  HALF  REMEMBERED  THINGS,  I contributed 
big  chunks  of  my  time  and  followed  outside  leads.  George,  who  put  up  our 
initial  investment,  handled  display  and  promotion. 

For  our  Disney  sale,  an  old  Italian  woman  in  the  neighborhood  had 
told  me,  dribbling  it  out  slowly,  warily,  that  her  brother  had  "Mickey 
Mouse  toys."  And  that  he  lived  in  New  Jersey.  And  finally  that  he  wanted 
to  see  what  I thought  they  were  worth. 

So,  I spent  a mind-boggling  afternoon  in  a Hoboken  cellar  up  to  my 
nuts  in  wind-up  Goofies,  Minnie  Mouse  coloring  books,  a streetcar  with 
Pluto  driving  and  Huey,  Dewey  and  Louie,  Mort  and  Ferd  aboard.  Enough 
stuff  to  stock  a small  store.  Like  ours. 

The  guy  who  owned  this  looked  like  the  animated  version  of  Gepetto. 
So  much  so  that  I thought  my  nose  was  going  to  start  growing  when  I told 
him,  "Twenty-five  hundred  is  as  far  as  I can  go.  I don't  know  if  anyone 
wants  to  buy  this  stuff." 

Partly  this  was  true.  That  was  all  the  capital  we  had  available.  And 
I didn't  know  what  this  was  worth.  No  one  did.  These  kinds  of  toys  were 
just  starting  to  be  widely  collected.  But  my  bet  right  from  the  first  was  that 
this  could  do  it  for  us. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


11 


George,  who  could  get  a little  self-righteous  and  anal  about  stuff  like 
proper  ownership  and  taxes,  saw  what  I did  and  much  more.  He  handed 
over  the  money  and  we  grabbed  the  merchandise. 

The  pricing  was  all  guesswork.  George's  book  Discovering  the  Ameri- 
can Toy  got  its  start  when  he  catalogued  our  purchase.  Word  started  to  get 
out.  People  started  calling.  New  Magazine  and  The  Daily  News  sent 
around  photographers.  The  stories  would  appear  after  Labor  Day.  We 
spent  late  August  getting  ready. 

A friend  of  George's  gave  us  a two-hour  tape  of  Disney  music.  It  had 
"When  You  Wish  Upon  A Star"  and  "Someday  My  Prince  Will  Come," 
"Hey  Diddley-Dee,  An  Actor's  Life  For  Me,"  "Zippity-Doo-Dah,"  and  all 
the  rest.  George  and  Scott  played  it  constantly. 

On  the  day  that  I remember,  they  were  bringing  stuff  up  from  the 
cellar  and  singing  "Hi-ho,  hi-ho,  it's  off  to  work  we  go."  Maybe  it  was  the 
music.  More  likely  I was  cranky  because  I was  the  one  Scott  had 
supposedly  come  to  see  but  now  we  seemed  just  nodding  acquaintances. 

It  revived  my  feeling  that  I was  nothing  much  more  than  a reformed 
drunk,  a guy  who  had  just  come  in  off  the  street.  I thought  that  if  you 
looked  at  me  sideways,  I wouldn't  be  there.  "I'm  going  to  ask  that  'Hi  -ho, 
hi-ho,  it's  off  to  work  we  go'  be  played  at  my  funeral,"  I told  them. 

They  were  setting  up  rows  of  dwarves  made  of  rubber,  of  metal,  of 
plastic  and  paper.  "Let's  see,"  said  George,  "We  have  Doc  and  Dopey, 
Happy,  Grumpy....  Who's  this  one?" 

"Sleazy,"  I said.  "Didn't  you  see  the  bronze  figure  of  him  wearing  a 
Mac  Daddy  hat?"  They  ignored  me. 

Right  then  the  phone  rang  and  a woman  with  the  kind  of  Brooklyn 
accent  you  only  hear  in  1930's  Hollywood  comedies  told  me,  "My  name 
is  Ellen  Clark.  I've  asked  around  and  heard  you  might  be  interested  in 
something  we  have.  It's  like  a toy  and  old.  Antique."  When  I suggested 
bringing  it  by  the  store,  she  said,  "No.  It's  way  too  big.  Kind  of  an 
amusement  park  thing." 

Then  she  told  me  what  she  had  and  I was  fascinated.  But  I anticipated 
some  months-long  waltz  like  with  the  old  Italian  lady.  This  one,  though, 
said,  "We  can  drive  you  to  see  it.  Today.  It  won't  take  long."  The  intrigue 
tickled  me  and  I made  an  appointment  for  that  afternoon. 

Then  I realized  the  time  and  was  relieved  at  being  able  to  slip  out  of 


12 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


the  store,  saying,  "I'm  having  lunch  with  Addie.  We  made  the  date  last 
week.  What  do  you  want  me  to  bring  back?"  I don't  remember  what 
George  wanted.  Scotty,  of  course,  would  have  ordered  a cheeseburger, 
which  was  all  he  ate  that  summer. 

What  I do  remember  is  that  George  nodded  and  lost  his  smile.  It 
seemed  to  me  ridiculous  that  he  was  jealous  of  Addie  and  me  of  all  things. 
It  turned  out,  or  course,  that  he  was  right.  But  not  at  all  in  the  way  he 
imagined.  Not  even  in  any  way  I did. 

Pausing  in  Sheridan  Square  to  buy  hummus-and-falafel  pita  sand- 
wiches and  a double  order  of  stuffed  grape  leaves,  I watched  a tour  bus  full 
of  Japanese  snapping  pictures.  Some  of  them  focused  on  a hopeful  but  wary 
young  man  decked  out  in  tight  jeans  and  T-shirt  embarking  on  Christo- 
pher Street,  probably  for  the  first  time,  and  oblivious  to  their  attention. 

Nothing  but  minor  dust  devils  stirred  on  drowsy,  sunny  Cornelia 
Street.  I pressed  a button  on  a wall,  said,  "Kevin,"  in  response  to  an  oracle 
voice  asking,  "Who, " pushed  open  an  iron  gate  as  a buzzer  sounded,  passed 
down  a narrow  cobblestone  alley,  and  unlatched  another  gate. 

Then,  as  if  I had  followed  a ritual  prescribed  by  a genie,  I found  myself 
in  a place  of  trees  and  ivy-covered  walls,  where  finches  chirped  and  a black 
and  white  cat  batted  at  a leaf  floating  on  a tiny  marble  pool.  There,  across 
a flagstone  path,  was  a tiny,  two-story  house.  Addie  Kemper  stood  smiling 
at  the  worn  wooden  door  with  the  quizzical  owl  on  the  brass  knocker. 
Behind  her  in  the  office  was  a table  with  plates  and  a pitcher  of  iced  tea 
ready. 

The  living  space  was  a single  huge  room  upstairs.  The  ground  floor, 
aside  from  the  kitchen,  was  Addie's  office,  and  a blue  room,  its  walls  lined 
with  shelves  of  toys:  plastic  Indian  villages,  carved  wooden  elephants  and 
giraffes  from  East  Africa,  cast  metal  knights  and  ladies,  tiny  cardboard 
houses,  paper  dragons  and  silk  birds,  any  and  everything  children  might 
need  to  populate  their  fantasies  and  dreams. 

Addie  knew  the  weave  of  magic.  She  was  a psychiatrist  dealing 
mainly  with  children.  Play  therapy  was  one  of  her  tools.  We'd  met  at  the 
store.  And  right  at  the  start,  I learned  that  her  instinct  was  unerring.  If  a 
piece  came  into  the  shop  that  attracted  me,  she  showed  up  that  week  and 
bought  it.  Gradually  she  told  me  why  she  was  interested  in  them. 

After  that  she  would  stop  by  aijd  we'd  talk.  We  stepped  out  for  coffee 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


13 


a lot.  She  was  a good  listener.  The  first  time  I had  visited  her  house,  we 
ended  up  playing  on  her  sand  table  and  I found  I continued  to  do  that. 

On  that  summer  afternoon  a few  years  later,  I had  saved  snatches  of 
the  dream  that  awakened  me  the  night  before.  "It  was  lights, " I told  Addie, 
looking  at  her  shelves.  Then  I spotted  a small  German  passenger  train  and 
caught  a memory.  "It's  too  bad  this  isn't  an  electric  train.  The  neat  thing 
about  those  is  that  the  windows  light  up." 

Addie  shook  her  head.  "Imagination  is  better  for  our  purpose." 

She  was  right,  of  course.  Because  as  soon  as  I placed  the  train  on  the 
kitchen  table  amid  the  plates,  I remembered  waking  up  the  night  before. 
"I  had  this  dream  about  a train  last  night.  It  involved  an  old-fashioned 
smoker/club  car,and  somehow  lights  were  spinning.  I can't  call  the  dream 
back,  but  it  reminded  me  of  something  that  happened  when  I was  real 
small. 

"When  I was  maybe  four  my  mother  and  I lived  in  this  apartment 
house  in  Jamaica  Plain  in  Boston.  It  probably  wasn't  all  that  great.  But  I 
loved  it  because  out  the  back  windows  you  could  see  the  old  Boston,  New 
Haven  and  Hartford  tracks. 

"One  night  I woke  up,  came  out  to  the  kitchen  and  found  my  grand 
aunt  Tay  reading  the  papers  and  drinking  tea.  Maybe  she  was  taking  care 
of  me  because  my  mother  was  away.  Anyhow,  she  poured  me  some  milk. 

"As  she  did  I looked  out  and  saw  on  the  tracks  what  seemed  like  a 
single  brightly  lighted  railway  car  and  got  very  excited.  Thinking  about  it 
now,  I imagine  it  was  a club  car  full  of  people,  salesmen  and  good-timers 
in  that  strange  and  distant  year  of  1948.  The  rest  of  the  train  would  have 
been  baggage  cars  and  dark  pullmans.  And  it  must  have  paused  for  a signal 
on  its  way  into  Boston  or  through  the  night  to  Providence  and  New 
London  and  New  Haven  and  New  York. 

"Now  Tay  was  a woman  with  powers  and  she  sometimes  used  them. 
All  I can  remember  on  that  occasion  was  her  drawing  me  away  from  the 
window  and  turning  out  the  light  saying  something  like  'We  don't  want 
to  waste  electricity.' 

"What  I took  her  to  mean  was  that  all  those  people  in  the  barcar  had 
wasted  electricity.  And  they  were  condemned  to  a lifetime  of  sitting  on 
that  train  and  never  getting  home  to  bed." 

"Sounds  like  a description  of  the  West  Village,"  Addie  said  and  we 


14 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


both  laughed.  But  expectation  hung  in  the  air,  like  she  had  wanted  the 
story  to  go  further.  I too  began  to  wonder.  Then  we  heard  the  voice  of  a 
child,  Addie's  next  patient,  coming  through  the  yard,  and  I remembered 
the  time  and  the  Disney  sale. 

That  afternoon,  on  my  way  back  to  the  store,  I caught  a sidelong 
glance,  turned  to  a guy,  dark  and  skinny  with  a little  mustache,  seven  or 
eight  years  younger  than  I but,  of  course,  absolutely  smooth  and  timeless. 
I gave  him  my  best  profile.  "You  could  be  a cop,"  he  said,  a challenge  and 
an  invitation. 

Various  things  made  that  unlikely.  When  I spoke,  though,  it  was  in 
the  voice  of  my  Uncle  Mike  the  Irish  policeman.  "I  could."  His  eyes  were 
brown.  I kept  my  gaze  riveted  on  them.  My  eyes  are  blue  and,  thus,  can  be 
quite  cold.  Brown-eyed  people  sometimes  find  that  fascinating.  "You 
could  be  a punk,"  I told  him  and  he  sneered.  The  guy  handed  me  a slip  of 
paper.  On  it  was  a telephone  number  and  the  generic  boy's  name, 
"Johnny." 

Later  that  same  afternoon,  I was  in  the  store  with  Scotty.  George  was 
away.  On  business,  I had  not  the  slightest  doubt.  We  were  sticking  price 
tags  on  Jiminy  Cricket  puzzles,  Bambi  teapots,  Donald  Duck  alarm  clocks 
and  a whole  slew  of  Three  Little  Pig  items.  Three  Little  Pig  wind-up  toys 
and  plush  dolls.  Three  Little  Pig  toothbrushes  and  cereal  bowls,  flash- 
lights and  coloring  books. 

"George  is  practical  pig,"  Scott  said,  holding  a Big  Bad  Wolf  mask  up 
to  his  face.  I had  no  argument  with  that.  "But  I'm  the  one  who  builds  his 
house  out  of  wood." 

"The  hell  you  are!  You'd  be  lucky  to  build  one  out  of  straw." 

"Fuck  you!  I do  more  work  than  you." 

Unexpectedly,  that  hurt.  Before  replying,  I caught  myself.  "Unbeliev- 
able! I'm  arguing  about  which  of  us  is  a harder  working  pig." 

Scott  was  laughing.  Sometimes  there  were  hints  of  his  mother  about 
him,  on  occasion  traces  of  his  father.  "Anyway,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"Thanks  for  inviting  me.  You  and  George." 

Suddenly  the  conversation  he  had,  perhaps,  come  to  this  city  to  have, 
started  falling  into  place.  "Glad  to.  I thought  when  you  called  and  asked 
to  stay  that  your  old  man  and  the  book  were  back." 

"In  dreams,  sometimes.  A lot,  actually.  But  mostly  calling  and  asking 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


15 


was  like,  you  know,  a test.  Like  the  emergency  door  in  planes.  There's  all 
these  instructions  about  what  to  do  in  case  of  emergency.  And  I always 
want  to  test  it  before  takeoff  to  make  sure  it  works.  Sometimes  even  after 
takeoff." 

"Remind  me  never  to  fly  with  you." 

"You're  the  only  one  who  understands  about  my  father  and  me,  about 
the  book,  my  whole  family  curse  thing.  My  mother,  I think,  knows 
something.  But  she  doesn't  want  to  talk  about  it.  With  someone  like  my 
stepfather,  or  even  George,  there's  no  way  to  start  in  about  that  stuff,  even 
if  I wanted  to.  You  had  no  problem  with  it." 

This  was  the  moment  to  tell  him  the  reason  why  that  was.  "What  I 
have  is  a little  different.  But  since  I was  a kid  younger  than  you.  I've  had 
this  kind  of  double.  My  mother  had  one.  And  her  father.  The  guy  who  got 
me  off  drugs  and  booze  called  him  my  Silent  Partner...." 

Scott  leaned  forward,  hanging,  for  once,  on  what  I had  to  say.  Only 
then  did  I realize  how  little  I knew.  I paused.  When  the  bell  rang,  we  both 
jumped.  The  moment  got  shattered. 

At  the  front  door  was  a woman  maybe  fifty,  dressed  up  as  if  for  church 
in  high  heels  and  fake  pearls,  a kerchief  and  a short  raincoat.  She  had  big, 
serious  sunglasses,  as  close  to  a mask  as  you  can  wear  on  the  street. 

"I'm  Ellen  Clark,  the  one  who  called  you  earlier,"  she  said  when  I let 
her  in.  Something,  the  Village,  Bleecker  Street,  me,  seemed  to  make  her 
nervous.  "You  said  to  come  by  and  we  could  go  take  a look  at  it." 

This,  somehow,  didn't  feel  right.  In  a city  as  ethnic  as  New  York,  a 
name  as  bland  as  Ellen  Clark  sounded  fake.  It  occurred  to  me  to  apologize 
and  tell  her  to  come  back  in  half  an  hour.  By  then  George  would  have 
returned  and  could  tell  me  whether  this  was  or  wasn't  a good  idea. 

In  the  meantime  I could  talk  to  Scotty  about  his  dad  and  my  Shadow 
and  what  I remembered  about  being  fourteen  and  an  alien  in  the  land  of 
humankind.  But,  as  if  he  had  caught  my  own  uncertainty,  like  quicksilver, 
like  an  autumn  sky,  the  kid  went  from  engaged  to  withdrawn.  So  the 
easiest  thing  was  just  to  tell  him,  "Let  me  do  this.  We'll  talk  tomorrow 
before  you  go  back."  He  shrugged  and  the  opportunity  went  away. 

The  first  place  Ellen  took  me  was  a car,  a Buick  four-door,  around  the 
comer.  At  the  wheel  was  a guy  who  could  have  been  her  husband,  her 
boyfriend,  maybe  her  brother.  He  wore  a blue  polo  shirt  and  double-knit 


16 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


slacks  and  aviator  sunglasses.  They  exchanged  nods.  Uncomfortable,  I 
found  myself  noting  details. 

His  name  tvas  Walt,  that  much  I got.  The  last  name  was  blurred.  She 
slid  in  back  and  I sat  in  front  with  Walt.  Something  about  them  made  me 
remember  an  old  street  rule;  "One  trick  at  a time;  two,  almost  never; 
three,  turn  and  run." 

Out  of  nowhere,  I recalled  myself,  not  much  older  than  Scotty  was  at 
the  moment,  racing  down  a commercial  street  deserted  on  a summer 
evening.  Behind  me,  a car  with  three  guys  in  it  backed  up  fast.  One  of  them 
himg  out  the  window  and  yelled.  "Stop,  little  boy,  if  you  know  what's  good 
for  you!" 

Then  a voice  in  my  ear,  said,  "They  catch  us,  they  lock  us  up  in  a 
cage!" 

So  I stretched  my  legs  and  got  to  the  comer.  Boston  Common  full  of 
people  strolling  was  across  the  way.  The  guys  who  had  tried  to  pick  me  up 
seemed  to  flicker  as  they  shifted  out  of  reverse  and  drove  off.  The  memory 
put  me  on  edge. 

When  I say  I'm  from  New  York,  I mean  Manhattan.  Walt  and  Ellen 
and  I crossed  the  Williamsburg  Bridge.  Of  that  I was  sure.  But  the  other 
side  of  the  river  was  unknown  land.  My  head  spun  as  the  skyline  flowed 
past  on  the  left,  and  my  sense  of  direction  deserted  me.  On  my  right  were 
the  streets  and  low  houses  of  first  Brooklyn  and  then  Queens. 

"You  must  see  a lot  of  strange  stuff  in  your  business,"  Walt  said  and 
sounded  like  a john  trying  to  make  conversation  on  a date. 

"You  should  see  the  store  Kevin's  got,"  said  Ellen.  "All  Donald  Duck 
and  Bambi.  Stuff  you  would  have  tossed  out  not  knowing  it  was  worth 
anything." 

We  pulled  off  the  expressway  and  into  a neighborhood  of  row  houses 
and  comer  stores,  of  kids  frantic  with  play  in  the  last  days  of  vacation. 
Church  steeples  dominated  the  skyline.  On  the  next  block,  along  the  East 
River,  lay  warehouses  and  factories,  piles  of  lumber  and  steel  and  indus- 
trial debris.  The  water  and  the  street,  both  almost  empty  of  traffic,  evoked 
the  feel  of  a quietly  decaying  river  town. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Walt  as  he  pulled  up  to  the  curb  in  front  of  a big, 
brick  warehouse,  old  and  closed.  Getting  out  of  the  car,  I looked  down  and 
saw  tracks  running  along  the  cobblestone  street.  This  was  a streetcar  line. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


17 


long  unused,  and  I didn't  know  whether  touching  the  rails  or  stepping  over 
them  would  bring  me  luck. 

"This  is  the  guy  to  see  the  item,"  said  Walt.  I looked  up  to  find  that 
the  door  of  the  warehouse  was  open  and  the  forbidden  third  on  the  date 
stood  looking  at  me.  "Kevin,  this  is  Al." 

He  wasn't  young,  his  eyes  were  hidden  under  the  bill  of  a baseball  cap. 
He  wore  a big  cigar  in  his  face.  Still,  I caught  a flash  of  slit-eyed 
recognition.  Over  the  years.  I'd  learned  the  meaning  of  that  look.  This  guy 
had  met  my  Shadow. 

He  barely  nodded,  but  I felt  his  gaze  on  me  as  I was  led  through  an 
office  and  down  a hall.  They  slid  open  a big  freight  door  and  I stood  at  the 
edge  of  a huge  loading  bay.  Afternoon  sun  filtered  through  cracked  and 
dusty  skylights. 

The  item  took  up  most  of  the  floor  space.  It  was  very  old,  but  even  in 
the  dim  light,  it  was  all  flashing  eyes  and  gold  skin,  bared  teeth,  and 
striking  hooves  on  horses  that  were  halfway  to  being  dragons. 

Stunned,  I stepped  forward.  The  roof  and  platform  of  the  carousel 
were  faded  red  and  black  and  yellow,  all  covered  with  mystical  symbols, 
suns  and  stars  and  hieroglyphics. 

Behind  me  a switch  got  thrown,  and  loading  doors  at  the  back  of  the 
bay  rolled  open.  Outside,  sunlight  bounced  off  all  the  glass  in  Manhattan, 
glanced  over  the  ripples  on  the  river,  caught  the  gold  and  ivory  of  the 
carousel.  And  for  a moment  the  eyes  of  the  horses  seemed  to  follow  mine, 
the  muscles  in  their  legs  to  shimmer. 

It  was  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  As  I walked  all  the  way  around, 
I was  aware  of  the  three  of  them  watching  me  from  the  door.  Looking 
closely,  I saw  chips  in  the  ebony  hooves,  hairline  fractures  in  the  ivory 
manes.  I wondered  if  my  Shadow  had  seen  this  thing  and  what  he  had 
made  of  it.  "Does  it  function?"  I asked. 

"Not  yet.  We  still  don't  have  it  rigged."  Al  spoke  for  the  first  time  and 
sounded  like  phlegm  or  voices  heard  under  water.  "You  can  go  up  and  sit 
on  it,  if  you  want.  It's  real  sturdy."  I shook  my  head.  That  would  not  be 
necessary.  I had  visions  of  the  machinery  magically  activating  and 
suddenly  whirling  away  with  me. 

"Reminds  me  of  the  old-time  carnies.  Remember  them?  The  side- 
shows? Siamese  twins."  He  stared  at  me  with  dead  eyes.  His  hand  was  on 


18 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


the  switch  that  would  close  the  bay  doors. 

"You  know  a guy  named  Fred?" 

Indeed  I did.  The  name  Fred  was  one  both  my  Shadow  and  I had 
sometimes  used. 

I've  always  felt  that  it  would  be  unfair  to  get  killed  for  my  doppel- 
ganger's  crimes.  I had  moved  over  toward  the  open  doors.  "I  need  to  think 
a little  about  this,"  I said.  The  doors  seemed  to  lurch.  But  two  paces  took 
me  out  to  the  loading  dock  and  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 

On  the  drive  back  over  the  bridge  to  Manhattan  with  Walt  and  Ellen, 
I asked  about  Al.  "He's  a business  partner, " said  Walt.  And  though  he  said 
more,  things  became  no  more  specific.  The  only  point  they  were  definite 
about  was  the  price.  As  I got  out  of  the  car  in  front  of  the  store,  Walt 
promised  to  get  back  to  me. 

George  asked,  "What  did  you  see?" 

"Something  real  big,"  I replied.  "And  real  old  and  without  a scrap  of 
paper."  I told  him  about  Ellen,  Walt  and  Al,  omitting  the  part  about  my 
Shadow.  I described  the  carousel,  failing  to  mention  the  rolling  eyes  and 
trembling  hooves  or  the  way  it  had  a hook  in  me.  "They  want  twenty-five 
grand,"  I said. 

George  shook  his  head.  "Sounds  shaky  and  shady,  Kev.  Even  if  we  had 
the  money."  That  meant  NO.  And  I had  to  agree.  But  that  didn't  stop  me 
from  thinking  about  it.  Or,  it  turned  out,  from  dreaming. 


EEP  IN  THE  NIGHT,  I felt  an  elevator  drop  a 
dozen  stories  and  land  on  my  heart.  The  fall  left  me 
awake  and  gasping  for  breath.  I lay  still  until  the  pain 
was  gone.  George  had  his  back  turned  to  me  and  never 


stirred. 

Out  in  the  living  room,  Blanche  lay  above  Scotty  and  stared  unblink- 
ing into  my  eyes.  The  kid  was  going  home  the  next  day,  and  I'd  hoped  he'd 
be  awake.  Scott  was  someone  who  might  understand  the  dream  I'd  just 
had.  But  he  slept  gently,  openmouthed  and  vulnerable.  He  was  still  a child 
in  most  ways  and  it  would  have  been  unfair  to  get  him  involved.  I wanted 
so  much  for  things  to  turn  out  right  for  him. 

That  afternoon  I told  Addie,  "I  saw  him  off  on  the  train  first  thing  this 
morning.  George  kind  of  arranged  not  to  be  around  so  that  Scotty  and  I 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


19 


could  talk."  I shrugged.  "But  it  wasn't  the  right  time.  His  visit  went  okay, 
I guess."  She  made  no  reply. 

Then  I said,  "I  had  a dream  last  night." 

She  sat  across  the  sand  table  from  me.  I looked  around  the  room.  "You 
need  a merry-go-round,"  I said.  She  just  gestured  toward  shelves  with 
dozes  of  horses,  highstepping  wood  and  plastic  and  metal  ones.  I nodded 
and  made  my  own  carousel.  But  the  horses,  instead  of  following  each  other 
around  in  a circle,  faced  out  tails  toward  the  center,  defiant  and  fierce. 

"Rememher  my  telling  you  about  the  lighted  railway  car?  The  one  I 
saw  from  my  window  when  I was  little?  Well,  last  night's  dream  started 
out  in  this  bright,  loud  place  surrounded  by  dark.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
barcar  like  one  I remembered  from  when  I was,  maybe,  three  and  my 
mother  and  I were  getting  off  a train.  That  one  had  a bartender,  lots  of 
smoke  and  noise  and  cards.  All  of  it  had  frightened  me  and  I held  on  tight 
to  my  mother's  hand. 

"In  the  dream,  I noticed  we  weren't  moving  forward.  We  were  just 
going  around  and  around  like  a carousel.  And  horses  powered  it.  Outside 
the  windows  they  cantered,  snorted  without  sound,  flashed  their  eyes, 
bared  their  teeth  like  guard  dogs.  Then  I looked  out  into  the  dark  and  I saw 
a lighted  window  and,  in  it,  this  little  kid  my  age  and  an  old  woman  behind 
him.  It  was  Aunt  Tay  and  me. 

"That's  when  I realized  that  the  hand  I held  in  the  dream  belonged  to 
my  mother's  Shadow.  And  that  I was  my  Shadow  as  a child  looking  up  at 
me  in  the  window.  It  was  as  if  the  dream  was  from  my  Shadow's  memory 
and  not  my  own.  That's  part  of  what  woke  me  up."  Addie's  eyes  narrowed 
a millimeter  or  two.  This  wasn't  the  first  time  I had  mentioned  my 
doppelganger. 

"After  I was  awake,  I remembered  more  clearly  what  happened  with 
Aunt  Tay  in  the  kitchen  way  back  then.  When  she  saw  what  was  on  the 
tracks,  Tay  had  plunged  us  into  darkness  and  pulled  me  back  from  the 
window  not  all  that  gently.  'It's  ones  like  those  that  waste  all  God's  light, ' 
she  told  me.  The  way  she  said  that  scared  me.  So  she  brought  me  back  to 
my  bed  and  sang  me  to  sleep  with  the  old  song  that  starts; 

Go  brazen  light 

Come  healing  dark." 


20 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


When  I was  done,  Addie  asked,  "Whose  fear  was  it  you  felt  in  the 
dream?" 

I thought  that  over  without  finding  an  answer.  Then  I said,  "The  fear 
triggered  a pain  like  a weight  crushing  my  heart."  Just  remembering  that 
made  the  air  go  out  of  me  and  left  me  gasping  there  at  the  sand  table. 

Addie  took  my  hands  and  asked,  "Darling,  how  long  is  it  since  you've 
seen  a doctor?  Not  counting  the  clap  clinic?" 

I couldn't  remember  and  Addie  wanted  to  set  up  an  appointment  with 
a colleague  right  then  and  there. 

That's  when  I remembered  that  without  Scotty  we  suddenly  were 
very  busy  at  the  store  and  said  I'd  do  it  later.  On  the  way  back  to  work,  I 
stopped  at  a pay  phone  and  made  a call.  An  answering  machine  came  on 
and  I said  in  the  cop  voice  that  lay  somewhere  deep  in  my  race  memory, 
"Johnny,  this  is  Detective  Sergeant  Burke.  I want  to  ask  you  some 
questions." 


2. 

The  carousel's  second  pass  through  my  life  didn't  occur  at  any  magic 
interval  like  after  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  or  a year  and  a day,  or  a 
thousand  and  one  nights.  Magic  comes  around  with  a logic  beyond  our 
understanding. 

Walter  and  Ellen,  as  it  turned  out,  never  got  back  to  me.  The  incident 
slipped  out  of  my  mind. 

When  I think  of  those  years,  I recall  the  city  through  a kind  of  fever 
haze.  I woke  up  more  often  in  the  small  hours  feeling  empty  and  alien.  I 
remembered  things  that  had  been  done  to  me  by  humans.  A lot  of  the  stuff, 
especially  what  happened  when  I was  a kid,  made  me  mad.  I started  to 
explore  the  anger.  Some  guys  were  turned  on  by  the  scenarios  I laid  out. 
George  wasn't.  I left  his  bedroom  for  his  living  room.  Blanche  watched  me 
intently  when  my  eyes  flew  open  at  four  a.m. 

One  afternoon  at  HALF  REMEMBERED  THINGS,  a customer  was 
nibbling  at  a Robert  the  Robot  from  Ideal.  Light  came  down  the  street  at 
an  angle  the  sun  only  finds  in  October.  My  mind  kept  jumping  back  to  the 
past,  ahead  to  the  night,  and  it  killed  me  to  waste  this  day. 

George  came  in  with  Andrew,  the  photographer  who  had  done  the 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILE) 


21 


artwork  on  Discovering  the  American  Toy.  At  that  point,  I was  looking  for 
a place  of  my  own.  As  he  passed  the  counter,  George  remarked,  "I  found 
these  in  with  the  laundry"  and  handed  me  a set  of  handcuffs. 

"Thanks,"  I pocketed  them.  The  cuffs  were  one  of  the  toys  for  my 
Sergeant  Burke  persona.  I had  a rendezvous  scheduled  that  evening  with 
the  guy  who  called  himself  Johnny.  It  occurred  to  me  that  George  and 
Andrew  had  embarked  on  an  affair  and  would  be  happy  if  I got  out  of  the 
way.  Amazingly  enough,  this  hurt  my  feelings.  "I'm  going  to  lunch,  if 
that's  okay  with  you,"  I said  and  stalked  out.  I didn't  return  to  the  store 
that  afternoon. 

"With  Johnny,  the  game  is  cops  and  robbers,"  I explained  to  Addie  at 
her  place  one  rainy  evening  shortly  afterward.  My  head  spun.  The  night 
before,  in  the  darkened  kitchen  of  a restaurant,  empty  after  closing.  I'd 
made  a young  guy  I'd  never  seen  before  stand  and  deliver,  cuffing  his  hands 
to  a pipe,  fucking  him  as  he  stood  against  the  sinks,  saying  not  a word. 

"And  you're  the  robber."  She  watched  me  closely. 

"No,  silly.  I'm  the  undercover  cop  because  I'm  older  and  wear  a beard 
and  because  I can  do  this.  'DROP  THE  FUCKING  PANTS,  MOTHER! 
ASSUME  THE  POSITION!'  I learned  to  yell  like  that  at  military  school. 
Not  those  exact  commands.  But  the  intent  was  the  same." 

My  mouth  was  out  of  control.  I'd  never  talked  about  this  stuff  with 
Addie  or  much  of  anyone  else.  "My  dick  is  not  the  biggest.  But  it's  uncut. 
Almost  all  American  guys  are  circumcised,  so  that  makes  me  exotic. 
When  I was  a kid,  1 looked  too  young.  Like  I looked  fourteen  when  I was 
sixteen.  Kids  my  own  age  weren't  interested  in  that.  They  had  just 
recently  escaped  being  fourteen  themselves.  Certain  older  guys  were 
turned  on.  And  they  were  willing  to  pay.  I had  this  whole  other  identity 
as  Fred,  a tough  slum  kid,  close  to  the  street.  My  Shadow  fit  into  that. 
Sometimes  he  was  Fred.  Sometimes  I was. 

"That  kind  of  game  carries  over.  Like,  I know  that  Johnny's  real  name 
is  Stanley  and  he's  a graduate  student  in  film  at  NYU  and  not  a street  punk. 
That  detracts  from  the  scenario  for  me.  But  if  he  knew  I was  an  antique 
dealer,  it  would  kill  the  relationship." 

"You  mean  he  wouldn't  love  you?" 

"He  doesn't  now. " I shook  my  head  impatiently  and  found  it  made  me 
dizzy.  "That's  not  the  point."  Sweat  was  on  my  neck  and  upper  lip. 


22 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"I'm  leaving  George,"  I said.  "We  agreed.  I'll  look  for  an  apartment. 
I have  nowhere...!  mean  it's  uncool  right  now  at  home." 

Addie  was  shaking  a thermometer  I didn't  remember  her  having  a 
moment  before.  "Open  up,  Kev." 

"Cut  it  out."  I turned  my  head  away. 

"In  your  mouth,  Kev,  or  we  take  it  anally.  Under  your  tongue."  Addie 
was  well  used  to  fractious  but  disoriented  patients.  She  handed  me  the 
business  end  of  a stethoscope.  "Open  your  shirt  and  put  this  on  your  chest. 
A little  lower.  Okay.  Breathe  deep.  And  exhale.  "Stand  up.  Open  your 
pants."  She  probed  my  groin.  "How  does  it  feel?" 

"Like  I'm  turning  a rough  trick."  She  slapped  me  on  the  butt.  "Ever 
think  of  becoming  leather  trade?"  I asked  and  realized  I could  no  longer 
stand. 

What  I remember  about  the  next  week  or  two  is  lying  in  Addie's  big 
bed,  soaking  in  her  tub,  while  below  me  children  spoke,  sang,  cried.  I 
remember  one  night  waking  up,  looking  out  the  window  and  seeing  a 
familiar  figure  outside  the  gate.  My  Shadow  stared  across  the  silent 
autumn  garden.  Instead  of  seeming  tougher  than  me,  he  looked  sick.  And 
very  scared. 

One  day  George  came  by,  bringing  some  of  my  belongings,  telling  me 
not  to  worry  about  the  shop.  Downstairs,  I heard  him  whisper  to  Addie 
about  a strain  of  very  bad  flu  that  was  going  around.  She  said  I had 
pneumonia,  then  murmured  something  to  him  and  he  thanked  her. 

I remember  the  office  of  a friend  of  hers,  a lesbian  doctor  who  did  tests 
on  my  heart.  I remember  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  Addie  rubbing 
my  back  and  telling  her,  "When  I was  a kid,  a lot  of  my  contact  with  guys 
was  pretty  brutal.  Cops  and  perverts  and  relatives.  I never  felt  I had  any 
control.  With  Johnny  and  these  other  guys,  it's  like  I replay  all  that  but 
with  me  as  the  other  guys.  Like  I'm  looking  for  my  childhood  in  all  the 
wrong  places." 

"You're  searching  for  your  doppelganger?" 

"No.  Him  I have  no  trouble  finding.  The  other  night,  I saw  him.  He 
looked  unwell.  Like  my  pneumonia  was  a kind  of  pale  reflection  of  what 
he  had." 

My  liaison  with  Addie  lasted  a couple  of  months  while  I looked  for  a 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


23 


place  to  live.  She  taught  me  how  to  use  condoms.  Once  or  twice  I thought 
I was  a research  paper  of  hers.  Then  she'd  go  out  dressed  in  my  clothes. 
Hers  mostly  didn't  fit  me. 

That  winter  I found  a large,  low-ceilinged  studio  apartment  on  Mott 
Street.  It  was  opposite  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  the  old  one  the  Irish  built 
before  they  went  big  time  up  on  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  now  the  local  parish 
church.  Lots  of  mornings,  I awakened  to  the  sound  of  bells.  But  I never 
went  inside  the  place. 

That  winter  I thought  that  George's  and  my  partnership  would  end 
just  like  our  relationship.  That  winter  too  the  Scott  Callendars,  Junior  and 
Senior,  swung  back  through  my  life.  One  evening  Sarah  called,  sounding 
tense,  to  say  her  son  had  disappeared. 

A few  days  later  on  a gray  afternoon  that  promised  snow,  I returned 
to  the  shop  from  an  auction  and  found  him  scarfing  down  hot  chocolate 
and  muffins  as  fast  as  George  could  serve  them.  "I'm  in  the  city  for  keeps, " 
he  announced.  "I  thought  you  two  were  still  together,"  he  said,  angry  and 
hurt. 

Walking  to  my  place  with  Scott  in  his  tangled  hair,  bomber  jacket  and 
torn  jeans  with  thermal  drawers  underneath,  I caught  the  glances  directed 
his  way.  The  admiration  and  longing  was  so  intense  as  to  look  like 
resentment.  Scott  seemed  oblivious. 

Intentionally,  I led  him  under  the  Gordian  knot  of  sneakers  that  hung 
on  a lamp  pole  at  Mott  and  Houston.  "That's  the  local  gang.  They  take  the 
shoes  off  kids  who  violate  their  turf  and  sling  them  over  the  wires." 

"Cool,"  said  Scott  with  barely  an  upward  glance. 

A year  and  a half  before,  his  last  visit  had  been  easy.  He  was  basically 
still  a child  and  afraid  to  stir  too  far  from  George  and  me.  This  time  an 
adult  lurked  inside  him.  I asked,  "Seen  A Garland  Knot  for  Children 
lately?" 

And  he  replied,  "I  met  your  Shadow  today.  Uptown  on  Lexington." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?"  Is  there  any  regret  sharper  or  stupider 
than  for  the  conversations  we  didn't  have? 

"Casing  the  territory.  I considered  not  telling  you  I was  in  the  city. 
This  guy  spoke  to  me  and,  fucking  Christ,  Kevin,  I thought  he  was  you.  In 
this  decayed  version  of  those  same  leathers  you're  wearing,  stinking  and 
needing  a shave. 


24 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"And  he  kind  of  was  you.  He  calls  himself  Fred,  talked  about  what  you 
and  he  did  when  you  were  a kid.  Said  he's  old  and  savvy  now,  and  I was  a 
great-looking  boy  with  a lot  of  potential.  I said  I was  straight  and  he  said 
that  being  queer  would  just  get  in  the  way.  He  showed  me  what  it's  like 
for  the  kids  up  there."  Scott  looked  like  he  couldn't  decide  whether  to 
vomit  or  cry.  "Why  did  you  let  them  do  that  stuff  to  you?  Fuck  you,  Kevin 
were  you  that  desperate  when  you  were  my  age?" 

"Lonely.  Things  were  different  then.  I was  looking...."  But  what  I'd 
been  looking  for  seemed  too  stupid  to  talk  about.  Instead  I said,  "You  got 
that  much  trouble  with  my  being  gay,  your  staying  here  isn't  going  to 
work." 

He  just  shook  his  head.  "You  know  that's  not  it.  I got  friends  that  are 
gay.  And  you  and  George  were  great  together.  Why  did  you  do  that,  Kevin? 
Break  up  with  George?  Your  Shadow  thinks  that  he  and  you  aren't  gay.  Or 
straight.  Or  anything  human.  That  all  you  want  is  some  little  comer  to  be 
warm  in.  Like  a reptile.  That's  what  he  says.  That  together  you  don't  add 
up  to  one  person.  That  you  know  that.  But  you're  scared  to  face  it." 

We  stood  in  front  of  my  building.  My  mouth  tasted  like  rust.  My  life 
seemed  worse  than  worthless.  "Scott.  I'm  going  to  have  to  tell  your 
mother  you're  here.  She  wants  you  back." 

He  stepped  away  from  me  then,  ready  to  take  flight.  "Tell  my  mother 
I'll  drop  off  the  face  of  the  earth  and  peddle  my  ass  like  you  did.  I figure  it's 
that  or  the  flaming  cycle.  Which  way.  Dad's  way  or  Kevin's  way?  That's 
the  question." 

At  that  moment  I felt  the  primal  male  urge  to  wipe  the  defiance  off 
this  kid's  face,  to  hand  him  the  same  bad  times  I remembered.  But  one 
more  wrong  move  by  me  and  he'd  go  back  to  my  Shadow.  I would  lose  him 
forever. 

From  somewhere  I found  it  in  me  to  say,  "Maybe  you  got  sent  here  to 
teach  me  patience  or  humility  or  something.  If  you  enroll  in  school  and 
work  in  the  store.  I'll  ask  your  mother  if  you  can  stay." 

A day  or  two  later,  Scott  came  home  barefoot,  lips  white  with  rage. 
What  I wanted  to  do  was  yell  at  him  and  call  the  cops.  What  I did  was  check 
to  make  sure  he  wasn't  actually  tracking  blood  and  order  pizza  with 
pepperoni,  his  favorite  food  that  year.  Next  morning  before  dawn  Scott 
slipped  out  of  the  apartment  wearingxjld  shoes,  with  a familiar  book  under 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


25 


his  arm.  I heard  him  go  up  to  the  roof  and  did  not  follow  him.  Naturally, 
I couldn't  go  back  to  sleep. 

He  returned  that  evening  with  the  shoes  slung  over  his  shoulder 
wearing  a tight  grin  and  expensive  sneakers  I hadn't  seen  before. 

"Those  belonged  to  the  guy  who  did  it  to  you?" 

"There  were  a few  of  them  who  jumped  me.  These  were  the  best  pair 
that  fit.  Today,  they  were  all  real  happy  to  toss  their  shoes  up  on  the  wire 
and  run  home  crying  to  their  mamas.  Everyone  saw.  Their  girlfriends 
stayed  and  talked  with  me." 

"But  that's  all  that  happened  to  the  guys?" 

"Except,  maybe,  a singed  eyebrow  or  two.  And  their  blades  getting  too 
hot  to  handle.  I kicked  all  the  knives  down  the  sewer." 

"Okay.  But  I don't  want  to  see  the  Garland  Knot  around  here  again. 
And  I'm  going  to  give  you  a number.  This  woman  is  Dr.  Addie  Kemper.  I'd 
like  you  to  talk  to  her."  Scott  nodded  and  shook  my  hand  like  we  had 
sealed  a deal. 

Sarah,  but  not  her  husband,  visited  a couple  of  times.  She  didn't  go 
into  what  had  gone  on  between  the  two  of  them  and  Scotty.  She  didn't 
need  tO;  having  him  around,  I could  imagine.  Scott  got  enrolled  in  the  hip 
and  private  LITTLE  RED  SCHOOL  HOUSE  not  far  from  the  store.  Sarah 
agreed  to  have  him  see  Addie.  I got  screens  to  divide  my  place.  But  I had 
lost  my  privacy.  I couldn't  bring  guys  home.  And  I lost  my  peace  of  mind. 
I worried  about  the  kid  every  moment  he  wasn't  in  my  sight.  And  mostly 
wanted  to  strangle  him  when  he  was. 

George  saved  my  life  or  at  least  what  remained  of  my  sanity  by  asking 
if  Scott  could  stay  with  him  the  last  half  of  each  month.  "That  way  I'll 
know  he's  getting  fed  half  the  time,"  he  said.  And,  "I'm  glad  you're  being 
sensible  about  child  custody.  That  ruins  so  many  divorces." 

The  carousel  swung  back  into  my  dreams  one  dismal  Ash  Wednesday 
morning.  Lights  twirled  in  the  dark  as  I spun  around  and  around.  The 
barker's  voice  was  loud  and  his  rap  was  strange.  As  I rode  past  I heard  him 
say,  "...SAILING  INTO  THE  SUNSHINE  OUT  OF  THE  RAIN...."  Then 
he  was  lost  in  the  waltz  music  until  I came  by  again.  "...WHERE  WE  SEE 
OUR  OWN  CHILDHOODS...." 

On  one  side  I passed  the  lighted  midway,  on  the  other  I looked  out 
onto  the  night  and  a streetcar  stop.  On  one  circuit  I caught  sight  of  a car 


26 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


rolling  to  a halt.  I was  pulled  away  as  the  passengers  boarded.  On  the  next 
spin,  I saw  a kid  at  a car  window,  real  young,  his  face  clenched  so  that  he 
couldn't  cry  out  his  fear  and  pain.  The  car  hurtled  off  into  the  dark,  and  I 
was  pulled  back  toward  the  light  of  the  carnival.  It  was  as  if  my  heart  been 
torn  in  two,  so  deeply  did  our  separating  rip  me. 

And  then  I was  gasping  for  breath,  afraid  to  move  until  the  angina  died 
away,  alone  in  my  place  down  on  Mott  Street.  Scott  was  with  George.  And 
the  kid  had  pretty  much  put  an  end  to  any  affairs  I'd  been  having. 

So,  I disentangled  myself  from  the  covers,  pulled  on  a knee-length  T- 
shirt  and  went  to  the  kitchen  area.  Out  the  window  were  the  worn,  brick- 
walled  yards  and  buildings  of  the  old  cathedral.  St.  Patrick's,  with  its  Irish 
names  on  the  war  memorials,  Italian  priests  and  nuns  and  a mostly 
Spanish  congregation,  was  just  a shade  grander  than  a normal  parish 
church.  Down  on  Prince  Street,  junkies  seeped  in  as  Little  Italy  ebbed.  But 
on  this  block  bells  tolled  and  kids  in  uniforms  came  out  of  the  church  with 
black  crosses  of  ashes  on  their  foreheads. 

My  chest  felt  as  if  it  had  a huge  empty  hole  right  in  the  middle,  like 
I was  a cartoon  character  shot  through  by  a cannon  ball.  I sipped  tea  and 
remembered  Queen  of  Heaven  parish,  my  old  neighborhood  in  Boston. 

Near  the  parish  was  a streetcar  line  that  ran  from  Ashmont  Station 
through  Dorchester  Lower  Mills  along  the  Neponsit  River,  over  marshes, 
past  small  patches  of  trees  and  clumps  of  houses  built  on  firmer  ground 
and  out  to  Mattapan. 

Along  this  route,  at  the  end  of  the  summer  when  I was  twelve,  a 
carnival  pitched  camp  on  an  empty  lot  just  beyond  the  tidal  marshes.  It 
featured  nickel-a-pitch  booths  and  cotton  candy  and  hot  dog  stands,  air 
rifle  galleries,  a Ferris  wheel,  a merry-go-round  with  smiling  horses  and  a 
pony  ride  that  gave  a circus  tang  to  the  air. 

It  also  had  a sideshow  tent  closed  to  kids  under  sixteen  unaccompa- 
nied by  an  adult.  My  friend  Murph  and  I went  to  the  fair  one  day,  mainly 
on  my  nickels  and  quarters.  I said  the  sideshow  was  stupid  and  a fake  and 
he  agreed.  But  it  had  a pull  that  we  both  felt. 

Murph  was  thirteen  and  could  claim  to  be  fifteen  without  getting 
much  argument.  In  the  subtly  shifting  alliances  of  the  street,  he  began 
hanging  around  with  kids  older  than  he  was  and  I tagged  along  with  him. 
But  I was  already  going  to  school  downtown  which  made  me  an  outsider. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


27 


Murph  and  the  other  guys  were  all  a good  growth  spurt  or  two  ahead  of  me. 
It  was  1956  and  Elvis  had  sung.  They  wore  pompadours  and  pointed  shoes 
while  I was  still  dressed  like  a little  kid. 

I was  there  when  they  planned  to  go  to  the  carnival  that  night.  I said 
nothing  about  it  at  home,  just  showed  up  at  Curtis  Park  after  dinner  with 
all  the  change  from  my  bank.  There  were  maybe  half  a dozen  kids,  a couple 
I knew  only  vaguely.  They  looked  at  me  slit-eyed.  Murph  shrugged  and 
whispered  something.  On  the  streetcar  out,  a couple  of  them  slipped  past 
the  motorman  without  paying.  They  shouted  out  the  open  car  windows 
as  we  passed  over  the  marshes  in  the  August  twilight. 

The  carnival  by  dusk  was  aglow  and  loud,  bursts  of  "Stars  and  Stripes 
Forever"  blending  with  merry-go-round  music.  The  guys  were  noisy, 
pushing  each  other,  laughing,  looking  for  stuff  to  swipe.  Admission  to  the 
tent  was  fifty  cents.  We  circled  around  looking  for  a way  in. 

"If  they  say  sixteen,  they  mean  fourteen.  We  need  money."  They  all 
looked  at  me. 

"Hey,  your  shirt's  out!"  Suddenly,  my  jersey  got  pulled  up  over  my 
face.  Hands  emptied  my  pockets.  I heard  change  hit  the  ground.  "Pants 
him!"  I broke  free,  spun  away. 

"Watch  it,  you  jerk!"  I had  smashed  into  the  bald,  indignant  father  of 
a family.  The  kids,  when  I turned,  were  walking  away  laughing  as  Murph 
counted  the  change  he'd  taken  and  no  amount  of  squinting  could  keep 
back  tears. 

Then  a man  said,  "You  okay,  son?"  and  put  his  hand  on  my  arm.  He 
was  tall,  serious  looking.  He  must  have  seen  me  in  trouble  and  come  to 
help.  He  picked  up  some  dimes  that  had  dropped  and  put  them  in  my 
jersey  pocket.  "Are  you  hurt?"  I shook  my  head.  What  had  happened 
was  too  bad  even  to  think  about.  Behind  him  was  light  and  music,  the 
merry-go-round. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?  A Coke?"  People  seeing  us  together 
would  think  he  was  my  father.  He  kept  his  arm  around  me  and  I wanted 
so  much  for  them  to  think  that.  Then  he  said,  "Like  to  go  on  the  rides?" 
Putting  his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  he  guided  me  to  the  carousel.  People 
sailed  by  on  the  horses,  shards  of  dark  and  light  making  them  look  like  bits 
of  broken  mirrors. 

And  I knew  that  if  this  guy  put  me  up  there,  I too  would  shatter. 


28 


FANTASY  &.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Spooked,  I broke  out  of  his  grasp.  "Hey,  get  back  here! " All  of  a sudden  he 
was  furious.  He  tried  to  grab  me  and  I ran. 

As  I recalled  that  on  an  Ash  Wednesday  morning,  the  phone  rang  and 
a woman  said,  "Mr.  Grierson,  this  is  Ellen  Clark.  A year  or  two  ago,  I 
showed  you  a merry-go-round." 

I managed  to  tell  her,  "There  was  a problem  with  authentication.  Like 
who  owned  it.  You  ever  straighten  that  out?"  It  wasn't  that  I cared.  Not 
like  George  did.  But  it  felt  to  me  as  if  the  dream  had  evoked  the  carousel, 
and  that  scared  me  a bit. 

"We've  got  papers,  Mr.  Grierson.  We've  also  got  a guy  who  says  he  can 
have  it  up  and  running?" 

My  breath  ran  shallow.  This  could  mean  a lot  of  money.  Enough  to 
make  me  independent  of  George.  And  it  fascinated  me.  I couldn't  deny 
that.  "Same  place?" 

"No.  You're  still  interested?  We'll  be  in  touch." 

That  afternoon,  I sat  in  Addie's  and  told  her  all  I had  dreamed  and 
remembered.  "What  happened  after  the  night  at  the  carnival?"  she 
asked. 

"That  fall,  my  pubic  hairs  sprouted.  I practiced  a hard-eyed  smile  in 
front  of  the  mirror.  I discovered  places  where  guys  would  tell  me  I was  a 
good  kid  and  give  me  pocket  money." 

"In  return  for  which  you  were  molested." 

"Kind  of  like  now." 

Because  I had  told  her  about  waking  up  with  a pain  in  my  chest,  I sat 
with  my  shirt  opened  and  Addie  examining  me.  "Do  you  use  butyl- 
nitrite?"  she  asked. 

"Poppers?  No.  Why?" 

"Because  your  heartbeat  is  irregular,  which  makes  that  a risky 
activity.  Besides,  you  know  a lot  of  gay  men  are  getting  very  sick.  There's 
a theory  that  poppers  might  be  a cause." 

I shrugged.  The  "gay  disease"  was  part  of  the  background  noise  of  the 
city. 

Then  Addie  said,  "It's  interesting  that  the  carousel  dream  evoked  a 
memory  of  the  carnival  when  you  were  twelve."  I hadn't  even  told  her 
about  the  memory  having  evoked  the  telephone  call  about  the  carou- 
sel. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


29 


George  and  I didn't  talk  a whole  lot  at  that  point.  So  at  the  storel  didn't 
mention  the  call  or  much  of  anything  else.  Then  Scott,  who  was  supposed 
to  come  to  work  that  afternoon,  came  in  late  and  just  stood  staring  at  me 
and  saying  nothing.  There  were  customers  present,  so  I motioned  him  into 
the  back  room  and  asked  what  was  wrong. 

"I  saw  your  Shadow  again.  It  was  interesting.  He  talked  about  my 
father's  accident.  He  said  he  provided  the  acid  my  old  man  took.  And  he 
knew  what  it  was  going  to  do  but  you  managed  not  to  know.  He  says  you 
wanted  me  as  your  kid.  I think  he's  right.  So,  now  you  got  a genuine  reptile 
son  and  what  am  I supposed  to  do?" 

My  voice  come  out  tight,  choked.  "Scott,  when  you  were  two  years 
old,  I found  your  old  man  throwing  lighted  matches  at  you.  I wasn't  in  any 
position  to  call  the  police.  My  instinct  was  to  save  your  life  by  getting  your 
father  away  from  you."  I was  somewhere  between  anger  and  anguish. 
"Maybe  I was  wrong." 

Scott  turned  and  was  gone.  I heard  the  front  door  slam.  George  was 
alone  in  the  store. 

"That  does  it,"  I told  him.  "The  kid  goes  home  to  his  mother  or  goes 
out  on  the  street." 

George  couldn't  help  himself.  He  looked  at  me  with  concern.  "Kevin, 
take  it  easy.  And  don't  talk  that  way." 

"Listen,  if  I die,  he's  what's  going  to  kill  me.  If  you  want,  you  can  have 
him  full  time.  He'd  prefer  that." 

"You're  what  he  talks  about.  You  and  that  girl  with  the  huge  breasts 
who  works  at  Zito's  bakery.  However  he  expresses  it,  he  adores  you.  And, 
honey,  I will  testify  that  you  don't  make  that  easy." 

At  Addie's,  by  her  invitation  and  Scott's,  I sat  with  her  and  watched 
him  at  the  sand  table.  He  made  a landscape  of  houses  and  cars  and,  in  its 
midst,  built  two  mounds.  On  one  he  placed  a colorful  toy  Shaman  and  on 
the  other  a plastic  motorcyclist. 

"It's  like  these  two  wizards  fight,"  he  said.  "These  powerful  spirits. 
Over  me." 

"I'm  not  a wizard.  Scott.  I'm  just  a fool  who  did  a lot  of  stupid  stuff," 
I told  him  when  he  was  finished.  "I've  wondered,  you  know,  if  I did  it. 
Killed  your  old  man.  For  the  reasons  that  you  said.  And  I don't  know.  I 
don't  fucking  know.  Maybe  I was  looking  for  a son.  You  asked  how  I could 


30 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


do  the  stuff  I did  when  I was  a kid?  The  reason  is  so  stupid  it's  pathetic. 
I was  looking  for  a father." 

"Me  too,"  said  Scott. 


LLEN  CLARK  called  the  store  on  a snowy  day  right 
after  that.  She  gave  me  an  address  way  downtown  around 
the  corner  from  Desbrosses  Street  and  made  an  appoint- 
ment for  that  afternoon.  I was  willing  to  forget  how 


scared  I'd  been  the  last  time.  Mystery  drew  me  and  the  idea  that  this 
merry-go-round  held  my  dreams  and  was  worth  a fortune.  Carousel  horses 
were  selling  for  five  figures. 

Scott  and  George  were  both  there.  I told  nobody  where  I was  going. 
The  snow  fell  fast  and  steady.  Big  wet  flakes.  Cars  drove  with  their  lights 
on.  Taxis  had  all  disappeared.  Sound  was  distant,  and  the  air  smelled  of  ice 
and  iron  as  I walked  alone  down  the  West  Side,  not  even  looking  to  see  if 
I was  followed. 

A silver  stillness  hung  over  Desbrosses  Street  and  what  was  left  of  old 
Iron-Bound  Lower  Manhattan,  fust  to  the  south  new  office  towers  rose. 
Here,  snow  fell  on  cobblestones  and  on  the  silent  river.  The  building  at  the 
address  I'd  been  given  might  have  been  an  old  meetinghouse,  a public  hall 
of  some  kind.  Not  even  stopping  to  wonder  how  and  why  they  had  moved 
the  carousel,  I climbed  wide,  unshoveled  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

Just  then  I had  a sudden  flashback  to  a winter  years  before  when  I was 
still  very  strung  out.  My  Shadow  and  I rode  a freight  elevator  with  two 
guys  whose  heads  flickered  like  pilot  lights.  In  a voice  only  I could  hear, 
my  double  said,  "They're  fucking  zookeepers,  man.  They  are  going  to  put 
us  in  a freak  show  like  we're  the  two-headed  boy.  Straights  from  another 
dimension  will  pay  a quarter  apiece  to  toss  peanuts  to  a boy  and  his 
doppelganger." 

The  elevator  door  had  opened  on  a cellar  that  stretched  away  like  a 
cave.  "Run! " My  Shadow  dashed  one  way  and  I tried  to  go  the  other.  I got 
slammed  hard.  The  floor  come  up  and  whacked  out  my  lights.  But  I woke 
up  in  a hospital. 

As  I remembered  that,  the  door  before  me  opened.  Ellen  stood  in 
sunglasses  and  a fake  fur  coat.  As  I stepped  inside,  I saw  A1  dead-eyed  right 
behind  her. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


31 


Until  that  moment,  I could  have  backed  off.  Just  then,  my  option  got 
taken  away.  Feet  pounded  on  the  snow.  Scott  rushed  up,  saying,  "I'm  with 
him." 

Before  I could  say  no,  he  was  inside  and  the  door  shut  behind  us.  Ellen 
and  Al  exchanged  a glance  I couldn't  read. 

Stairs  to  either  side  of  the  cold  and  dusty  lobby  led  to  a balcony. 
Peeling  figures  on  the  WPA  mural  above  the  auditorium  doors  showed 
something  like  the  Sons  of  Labor  offering  the  Fruits  of  Industry  to  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  doing  here?"  I muttered. 

"Watching  out  for  you,"  Scott  said.  And  I noticed  the  Garland  Knot 
stuck  in  his  pocket  like  a pistol  in  a holster. 

"The  item  is  right  in  here."  Ellen  and  Al  watched  me  as  I pushed  open 
the  auditorium  door.  A stage  with  a raised  speaker's  platform  and  lectern 
ran  along  the  far  wall.  In  another  time,  dances,  strike  votes,  political 
rallies  must  have  taken  place  on  the  wide,  worn  floor.  Now  it  supported 
the  carousel. 

Harsh  ceiling  lights  shone  down  cruelly  on  cracked  wood  and  peeling 
paint.  It  could  have  been  pathetic.  But  the  horses  themselves,  eyes  savage 
and  teeth  bared,  made  Scott  whisper,  "Holy  shit!" 

Ellen  and  Al  stayed  near  the  door.  I wondered  how  they  had  gotten  this 
thing  in  here.  I wondered  what  had  happened  to  Walt.  I walked  over  to  the 
carousel.  Scott  stuck  with  me  like  he  was  glued.  His  presence  meant  there 
was  more  at  stake.  He  might  get  hurt  because  of  his  stupidity.  And 
mine. 

Still  I couldn't  help  but  stare.  In  the  last  year  or  so  I had  looked  at  lots 
of  carousels  up  close  and  in  pictures.  I'd  found  nothing  like  this.  Vlask,  a 
tum-of-the-century  Czech  designer,  had  done  work  somewhat  in  this 
vein.  But  not  as  visceral.  I calculated  that,  broken  down  and  sold  piece- 
meal, this  thing  would  be  worth  half  a million  easily. 

Somewhere  behind  us,  Al  spoke.  Scott  looked  that  way,  reached  into 
his  pocket.  "We  have  it  hooked  to  an  electric  generator.  You  and  the  kid 
can  sit  up  there  and  test  it  out."  I shook  my  head.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
I didn't  feel  well. 

The  lights  above  us  flickered,  a low  rumble  began,  the  carousel  horses 
started  to  move.  I heard  a voice,  alternately  quiet  and  loud  as  if  the  barker 


32 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


was  aboard  a spinning  merry-go-round  "...life  of  Kevin  Grierson  in  ALL 
ITS  MUNDANITY  AND  HORROR.  SEE  HIS  FRIENDS  AND  LOVER...as 
they  are  and  as  they  will...." 

My  head  spun.  I couldn't  catch  my  breath. 

There  was  George  up  on  a horse  along  with  everyone  else  I knew  from 
Johnny  to  Addie.  "...be,  SAILING  OUT  OF  THE  FUTURE  INTO  THE 
PRESENT.  SEE  HIS  FORMER  LOVER  struck  down  with  the  gay..."  As 
they  passed  before  me,  everyone  aged  and  some  changed  horribly,  "...sees 
himself  AND  HIS  OWN  FATE." 

"KEVIN! " I turned  to  see  Scott  beside  me  facing  the  door.  Ellen  stood 
back  there  like  she  was  ready  to  flee.  A1  had  his  hand  on  a lever.  "You  like 
our  merry-go-round,  Mr.  Grierson,  you'll  love  the  rest  of  our  carnival.  In 
fact,  you'll  be  a part  of  it,  you  and  your  friend  Fred.  Now  that  we  have  you, 
we  should  be  able  to  nab  him  easily.  Siamese  twins  will  be  nothing 
compared  to  you  two.  Stand  aside,  kid." 

A pair  of  guys  I hadn't  noticed  before  moved  out  from  behind  the 
carousel.  They  flickered  in  the  light.  "Turn  it  off,"  Scott  yelled.  "It's 
making  him  sick!"  He  pulled  out  the  book  and  said,  very  quietly,  "If  they 
take  him,  I go  with  him." 

He  fanned  the  pages  and  a tiny  ball  of  flame  flew  like  a bullet.  One  of 
the  guys  reached  inside  his  jacket.  The  flame  was  a burning  motorcycle 
and  rider.  It  hit  the  guy's  hand  and  he  howled.  The  cycle  bounced  off  him 
and  caught  the  other  guy  above  the  ear.  He  cried  and  beat  bis  smoldering 
bair. 

Ellen  had  disappeared.  Al  ducked  as  Scott  Callendar  Senior  and  his 
flaming  cycle  hit  the  transformer  with  a shower  of  sparks. 

The  next  thing  I heard  was  a strangled  scream  as  a giant  hand  squeezed 
my  chest  and  forced  all  the  air  out  of  my  lungs.  Then  I was  flat  on  the 
auditorium  floor.  Electrical  wires  smoldered  and  an  icicle  was  rammed 
into  my  heart.  I was  all  alone  as  the  cold  spread  up  my  arms  and  legs.  Scott 
raced  back  into  the  room,  threw  aside  the  book,  fell  down,  and  held  me. 
His  tears  felt  hot. 

"Don't  die,  Kevin.  I called  the  ambulance.  Don't  die  on  me.  I need  you 
so  much." 

Snow  made  the  sirens  muffled  and  slow.  "I  won't,"  I heard  myself  say. 
"For  that.  I'll  live,"  I said,  and  the  cold  stopped  creeping. 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


33 


3. 

Only  later  and  by  degrees  did  I understand  all  that  I had  promised  on 
a snowy  afternoon  just  off  Desbrosses  Street.  My  life  after  that  held  shocks 
hut  no  surprises,  like  watching  a movie  when  you've  already  seen 
extended  coming  attractions. 

The  carousel's  reappearance  seemed  inevitable.  In  tales  of  magic, 
there  is  always  a third  time. 

It  came  back  in  the  first  bloom  of  spring.  On  the  plane  from  Boston, 
I saw  the  land  grow  greener  as  we  flew  south.  I'd  been  at  the  funeral  of  the 
last  of  my  uncles  so  it  must  have  been  '87.  Everyone  had  said  how  well  I 
looked.  And  how  prosperous.  As  if  they  were  rehearsing  the  lines  to  be 
used  at  my  own  wake. 

A few  of  the  old  ones,  knowing  the  family  history,  may  have  been 
searching  for  a manifestation  of  the  Shadow.  But  even  that  connection  to 
my  clan  seems  severed.  So  far  as  I have  seen  and  heard,  no  relative  of  my 
generation  or  the  next  has  shown  any  hint  of  a double.  Checking  that  out 
was  my  only  good  reason  for  going  back.  I wondered  if  Me  and  My  Shadow 
were  the  last  of  our  kind  and  if  A1  had  been  right  in  trying  to  nab  us  for  a 
zoo. 

Younger  cousins  looked  for  the  telltale  signs  of  my  sexuality  and  my 
heart  trouble.  The  first  I express  in  a slight  alienation  at  these  gatherings, 
the  other  by  a slight  stiffness  of  the  soul,  a wariness  of  rapture.  I stayed  at 
the  Copley  and  went  back  to  New  York  the  next  morning. 

Trees  were  budding  in  Stuyvesant  Park  when  I got  home.  I'd  bought 
a co-op  that  winter  and  had  just  begun  to  settle  in.  The  previous  weekend 
Scott  and  a young  lady  named  Lise  had  stayed  with  me  on  their  way  out 
to  Long  Island.  From  all  I saw  and  heard  they  were  very  much  in  love.  It 
amazed  me  that  Scott  was  graduating  from  college  in  May. 

Only  after  my  multiple  bypass  did  he  tell  me  it  was  my  Shadow  who 
had  warned  him  I was  in  danger.  "He  said  I was  the  only  one  who  could 
save  you.  He  said  otherwise  you  and  he  were  going  to  end  up  in  a sideshow 
in  some  circle  of  hell.  He  thinks  they'll  stay  away  after  meeting  up  with 
my  dad." 

As  I unpacked,  I wondered  what  would  have  happened  if  he  hadn't 
pulled  my  attention  away  from  the  carousel.  Would  the  sight  of  my  future 


34 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


self,  my  destiny,  whatever  that  might  be,  have  killed  the  curiosity  and 
endless  hope  that  keeps  us  all  alive? 

On  my  answering  machine,  Addie  said,  "Kevin,  a patient  felt  she 
couldn't  create  an  African  Palace.  Any  ideas? " I would  call  her  later.  Addie 
was  a certainty  in  my  life.  I had  already  seen  her  ride  through  middle  age, 
serene  and  wise  on  a wild-eyed  wooden  horse. 

Since  it  was  still  early  on  that  spring  day  I walked  over  to  the  store. 
George's  Discovering  the  American  Toy  was  about  to  come  out  in  a 
second  edition.  I still  took  out  my  copy  of  the  original  and  read  the 
dedication:  "For  Kevin  Grierson,  a partner  in  wonder." 

At  HALF  REMEMBERED  THINGS,  George  sat  at  the  counter  doing 
our  taxes.  Details  like  that  impressed  me.  If  I was  HIV  positive,  nothing 
else  would  ever  enter  my  mind.  He  took  every  precaution,  held  onto  his 
health  and  waited  for  the  cure  I knew  wasn't  coming.  I alone  had  seen  him, 
defaced  and  broken  by  full-blown  AIDS,  swing  out  of  the  future  into  that 
old  meeting  hall. 

"How  did  it  go,  Kev?"  he  asked. 

"Okay.  Kind  of  jolly.  Considering  it  was  a wake  and  funeral."  My  life, 
as  I've  said,  contained  no  surprises.  But  it  was  a shock  on  a bright 
afternoon  to  glance  down  and  spot  at  George's  elbow  photos  of  fierce 
carousel  horses,  stacked  like  cordwood  in  what  seemed  to  be  a cellar. 

George  noticed  my  interest.  "Somseone  found  a disassembled  merry- 
go-round  in  a barn  out  in  Buck's  County.  Wants  me  to  authenticate  it.  The 
price  on  this  stuff  has  gone  through  the  roof.  Maybe  we  can  drive  down 
Sunday  and  see  it." 

He  said  more,  but  I felt  chilled.  Outside  the  store,  tourists  stared  at  the 
five-story  doll  apartment  house  in  our  window.  I turned  and  started  to  tell 
George  I thought  we  could  find  better  ways  to  spend  our  time  off.  His  head 
was  down  on  the  counter  and  he  was  sobbing. 

"Everything  scares  me,  Kev.  When  I opened  the  envelope  this  morn- 
ing and  saw  those  stupid  wooden  horses,  all  I could  think  about  was  how 
Larry  looked  before  he  went.  And  Eric.  The  dementia. ..Karposi's... the 
Goddamn  diapers..  .Oh  Jesus,  I feel  so  sick  some  mornings  when  I wake  up. 
And  I'm  scared  even  to  say  it!" 

And  I wished  we  had  blinds,  so  I could  draw  them  and  stop  the  eyes 
of  the  world  from  witnessing  the  misery  of  this  gentle  man.  Instead,  I 


so  MANY  MILES  TO  THE  HEART  OF  A CHILD 


35 


crossed  the  store  and  put  my  arms  around  him,  crooned  the  ancient 
sounds  of  comfort  that  we  all  know.  And  that  we  all  can  utter  if  we  just 
let  ourselves. 

Over  dinner  the  next  night,  I told  Addie.  "I  tore  up  the  photos. 
Someone  else  can  look  at  the  horses.  I slept  on  George's  couch  last  night. 
So  he  wouldn't  be  alone.  He  zonked  out  just  like  always.  Around  three  in 
the  morning,  I woke  up  from  a dream  and  felt  another  presence  in  the 
room.  Someone  cautious  and  wary.  But  curious  about  what  he  saw. 

"Then  I remembered  the  dream  I'd  just  had.  It  was  the  recurring  one 
where  the  streetcar  with  a kid  on  board  rolls  away  from  the  carnival.  He's 
ordinary  enough,  blond,  kind  of  small.  A real  young  twelve.  The  pain  in 
his  eyes,  the  way  he  sits  like  he's  been  hit,  remind  me  of  how  they  say  that 
Italians  bounce  back  but,  when  the  Irish  get  hurt,  they  stay  hurt. 

"He's  me,  of  course,  age  twelve.  I think  of  him  as  Kev.  He  doesn't 
seem  as  scared  as  he  once  was.  It's  him  I sense  when  I wake  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  Not  my  Shadow.  Not  anymore." 

"What's  your  Shadow  up  to  these  days?"  Addie  asked  like  she  was 
inquiring  after  one  of  my  relatives  whom  she'd  never  met. 

"He's  still  around,"  I said.  "People  see  him.  I'm  sure  he  knows  about 
Kev.  Sooner  or  later  the  kid  is  going  to  head  this  way.  I want  it  to  be  me 
he  goes  to  and  not  my  Shadow." 

Addie  smiled  and  seemed  to  approve.  It's  hard  to  know  how  crazy  she 
thinks  I am.  We  went  on  to  talk  about  miniature  hand-carved  tribal 
masks,  about  toy  columns  and  arches  the  color  of  sandstone  with  which 
a child  could  make  an  African  palace  as  twisted  and  magnificent  as  a 
dream. 


Books  To  Look  For 


CHARLES  DE  LINT 


Rose  Daughter,  by  Robin 
McKinley,  Greenwillow  Books, 
1997,  $16. 

OME  TIME 

ago  I reviewed 
Susan  Wilson's 
Beauty  in  these 
pages  (December  1996),  remarking 
at  the  time  that  the  story  of  beauty 
and  the  beast  seems  to  be  one  of  the 
fairy  tales  that  is  returned  to  again 
and  again,  by  writers,  the  producers 
of  films  and  TV  series,  and  even  the 
creators  of  feature-length  cartoons 
and  Broadway  productions.  One  of 
the  writers  I cited  was  Robin 
McKinley,  whose  own  Beauty 
(1978)  remains  a classic  in  the  field. 

Setting  beauty  beside  a beast 
can  make  for  a powerful  metaphor, 
never  mind  a fascinating  visual 
image.  The  one  highlights  the  other, 
defines  the  other,  allowing  us  to 
consider  our  own  perceptions  and 
misperceptions  in  the  light  and 
shadows  each  casts  on  the  other.  So 
it's  little  wonder  that  writers  are 


drawn  to  the  story.  What  I did  find 
surprising,  when  Rose  Daughter 
appeared  in  my  mail  box,  was  that 
an  author  who  had  already  visited 
the  tale  should  return  to  it  herself. 
But  that's  exactly  what  McKinley 
has  done  — and  from  her  afterword, 
it  appears  that  she  was  as  surprised 
to  find  herself  writing  the  book  as  1 
was  to  be  reading  it. 

Now  it's  been  almost  twenty 
years  since  I read  her  earlier  retell- 
ing of  the  tale,  and  I don't  have  it 
nearly  as  fresh  in  my  mind  as  I'd 
like,  so  I won't  be  making  a great 
many  comparisons  between  the  two 
books  here.  I do  remember  being 
enchanted  with  her  version  of  the 
story  in  that  earlier  book,  drawn  in 
by  the  music  of  her  language  and 
her  ability  to  make  such  a well- 
known  story  feel  new  once  more. 

Surprisingly,  she  has  managed 
to  pull  it  off  a second  time. 

All  the  elements  of  the  fairy 
tale  are  here:  kind-hearted  Beauty, 
the  youngest  of  three  sisters;  the 
father  coming  to  the  Beast's  castle/ 


BOOKS  TO  LOOK  FOR 


37 


mansion  and,  when  he  attempts  to 
leave  with  the  rose  Beauty  has  asked 
him  to  bring  back  from  his  travels, 
is  forced  to  give  up  his  daughter  to 
the  Beast;  and,  of  course,  the  Beast 
himself,  a Gothic,  fairy  tale 
Heathcliff,  terrifying  at  first,  be- 
coming more  sympathetic  the  more 
we,  through  Beauty,  get  to  know 
him. 

But  if  there  are  no  surprises  in 
the  story,  no  real  deviation  from 
how  we  expect  events  to  unfold, 
there  is  a richness  of  character  and 
details,  and  such  a warmth  in  her 
prose  and  storytelling  ability,  that 
the  fact  she  follows  the  tried-and- 
true  path  becomes  rather  irrelevant. 

In  a longer  chapbook  version  of 
the  afterword  that  accompanied  the 
promotional  material  of  the  book, 
McKinley  goes  into  more  detail  as 
to  how  she  came  to  be  telling  this 
story  for  a second  time,  explaining 
how  it  grew,  in  part,  from  her  clos- 
ing and  selling  off  her  beloved  cot- 
tage home  in  Maine  to  move  to 
England  to  be  with  her  husband. 
There,  in  an  English  cottage  with 
its  large  gardens,  as  opposed  to  the 
cottage  in  Maine  where  the  grow- 
ing season  is  approximately  a few 
minutes  between  spring  and  fall, 
she  grew  to  love  the  gardens  in  her 
new  home,  and  loved  working  in 
those  same  gardens. 


This  proves  to  be  the  heart  of 
Rose  Daughter.  The  novel  becomes 
a love  affair  with  the  cottage  to 
which  Beauty  and  her  family  move 
after  their  father  goes  bankrupt  and 
they  lose  everything  in  the  city 
where  they've  lived  all  their  lives. 
And  it  becomes  a love  affair  with 
one's  working  of  the  land,  exempli- 
fied in  the  novel  by  Beauty's  discov- 
ery of  her  own  gift  for  gardening, 
both  at  the  new  cottage,  and  in  the 
immense  greenhouse  of  the  Beast's 
mansion. 

There  are  many  deft  touches  in 
Rose  Daughter  that  one  won't  find 
in  the  original  tale  — new  charac- 
ters, fascinating  settings,  curious 
and  entertaining  asides  — but  they 
aren't  why  one  should  read  the  book. 
Read  it  for  the  warmth  and  charm 
that  spill  out  from  the  page  even  in 
the  story's  darkest  moments.  And 
read  it  because,  I would  think,  this 
is  a case  of  readers  being  able  to  get 
as  close  as  one  can  get  to  sharing  a 
piece  of  the  treasure  that  lies  deep 
in  an  author's  heart. 

The  Seraphim  Rising,  by 
Elisabeth  DeVos,  Roc,  1997,  $5.99. 

One  of  this  column's  readers 
wrote  to  me  recently  to  say,  "In 
reading  the  current  issue  of  RePSF, 
I noticed  your  comments  about  be- 


38 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


ing  tired  of  the  same-old  same-old. 
If  it's  something  truly  different  that 
you  seek,  please  permit  me  to  sug- 
gest The  Seraphim  Rising. " So  I tried 
it.  And  our  correspondent  was  right. 

A touchstone  to  the  theme  be- 
hind the  novel  might  be  some  of 
James  Morrow's  more  recent  work, 
such  as  Only  Begotten  Daughter 
(What  if  Jesus  has  a sister  and  she  was 
bom  today?)  and  Towing  Jehovah 
(What  if  there  was  a god,  only  he's 
dead  and  his  two-mile  long  corpse 
has  been  found  floating  in  the  ocean? ), 
except  where  Morrow  considers  the 
questions  satirically,  DeVos  ap- 
proaches them  matter-of-factly,  in 
the  mode  of  a near-future  thriller. 

Quick  backstory  to  The  Sera- 
phim Rising:  Thirty  years  before 
the  book  opens,  golden  eggs  dropped 
from  space  and  landed  in  the  ocean. 
Twenty  years  later,  they  opened 
and  six  angels  arose  from  the  eggs, 
kept  aloft  by  their  enormous  wings. 
They  claim  to  have  come  to  open 
the  gateway  to  paradise.  We  join 
the  story  as  the  angels  identify 
the  new  messiah:  Harry  Chen,  a 
drugged-  out  creator  of  VR  programs, 
the  most  notable  being  Freak  Fol- 
lies, in  which  he  rants  against  ev- 
erything the  angels  stand  for. 

Our  viewpoint  character  is 
Carson  McCullough  — a personal 
liaison  to  the  angel  Ezekiel  — who 
happens  to  have  grown  up  with 


Chen.  Having  fled  the  seminary  in 
a crisis  of  faith,  McCullough  is  now 
facing  another.  His  angel  charge 
keeps  bolting,  the  men  for  whom 
McCullough  works  use  what  he 
believes  is  unnecessary  force  to 
bring  Ezekiel  back  into  the  fold, 
and  then  there's  Chen.  One  thing 
McCullough  knows  for  sure:  what- 
ever else  he  might  be,  Harry  Chen 
is  no  savior. 

DeVos  does  a fine  job  in  bring- 
ing to  life  her  near-future  world 
where  the  church  and  various  gov- 
ernments all  vie  for  control  of  these 
creatures  that  some  accept  as  mes- 
sengers from  God,  others  as  scouts 
for  an  imminent  alien  invasion.  All 
of  the  different  factions  want  a piece 
of  the  action,  but  Chen  has  his  own 
ideas  as  to  what  the  messiah's  re- 
sponsibilities should  be  and  the  situ- 
ation  quickly  escalates  out  of 
everyone's  control. 

Once  it  starts  rolling,  the 
novel's  momentum  keeps  to  a rapid 
pace,  and  one  doesn't  notice  so 
much  that,  except  for  McCullough, 
most  of  the  cast  are  character  types, 
rather  than  individuals.  And  hap- 
pily, DeVos  doesn't  ignore  the  fas- 
cinating theological  repercussions 
of  the  events  she  describes.  Her 
take  on  these  elements  is  different 
from  Morrow's,  as  one  would  hope 
and  expect,  but  no  less  thought- 
provoking. 


BOOKS  TO  LOOK  FOR 


39 


A Dry  Spell,  by  Susie  Moloney, 
Doubleday,  1997,  $23.95 

"The  next  Bob  Dylan."  "In  the 
tradition  of  Tolkien."  It  isn't  fair, 
but  we  use  touchstones  all  the  time 
— shortcut  descriptions  that  con- 
vey the  flavor  of  a work  and  are 
difficult  to  live  up  to.  The  one  I've 
heard  bandied  about  in  regards  to 
Susie  Moloney's  new  novel  is 
Stephen  King. 

Now  pretty  much  everyone 
who's  ever  written  a horror  novel 
has  probably  had  the  King  tag  put 
on  their  work  at  some  point  or  an- 
other, but  in  this  case  it's  not  far  off 
the  mark.  I don't  know  if  Moloney 
has  King's  staying  power,  and  her 
work  doesn't  quite  have  the  driving 
pulse  of  storytelling  that  underlies 
the  best  of  King's  novels,  but  there's 
a flavor  in  her  clean  prose  and,  espe- 
cially, in  the  relaxed  manner  she's 
able  to  bring  her  characters  to  life 
that,  if  not  exactly  reminiscent  of 
King,  is  certainly  as  accomplished. 
Even  brief  walk-on  roles  are  infused 
with  a judicious  eye  for  just  the 
right  amount  of  telling  detail. 

The  principal  action  centers 
around  these  four,  the  most  power- 
ful of  whom  rarely  makes  an  on- 
stage appearance: 

Karen  Grange  is  the  bank  man- 
ager of  Goodlands'  only  bank.  As 
the  drought  that's  hit  the  town 


works  its  way  through  year  four, 
it's  her  sorry  task  to  foreclose  on 
the  mortgages  held  by  her  neigh- 
bors. 

Mary  O'Hare  was  murdered  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Since  her  death, 
she's  harbored  a bitter  grudge  that's 
come,  over  time,  to  include  the 
whole  town. 

Vida  Whalley,  from  the  poor 
side  of  town,  also  harbors  a grudge 
against  the  people  of  Goodlands,  so 
she  becomes  the  perfect  host  for 
O'Hare's  spirit.  It's  through  Whalley 
that  we  learn  the  little  we  know  of 
O'Hare. 

And  then  there's  Tom  Keatley, 
the  rainmaker,  a contemporary 
hobo,  wandering  the  backroads  of 
America  who,  when  asked,  "How 
do  you  make  it  rain?"  inevitably 
replies,  "I  make  it  rain  for  fifty 
bucks." 

Keatley's  arrival  is  the  catalyst 
that  moves  the  dry  hatred  of  O'Hare 
and  Whalley  from  manifesting  as  a 
passive,  if  deadly,  drought,  to  an 
escalating  supernatural  struggle 
that  finally  culminates  in  a classic 
confrontation  between  the  four  in 
the  middle  of  a dust  storm. 

But,  at  least  from  this  reader's 
point  of  view,  the  intricacies  of  the 
plot  weren't  nearly  as  fascinating 
as  Moloney's  characters.  I was  far 
more  interested  in  how  Moloney 
played  out  their  personalities,  from 


40 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


the  flashbacks  of  Keatley's  wander- 
ing days  and  the  shame  of  what 
brought  Grange  to  manage  the 
Coodlands  bank,  to  the  everyday 
lives  of  the  townsfolk  as  they  tried 
to  cope  with  the  terrible  drought.  In 
other  words,  the  people.  Which, 
come  to  think  about  it,  is  what  I 
like  the  best  about  King's  books 
when  he's  on  a roll. 


Material  to  be  considered  for 
review  in  this  column  should  be 
sent  to  Charles  de  Lint,  P.O.  Box 
9480,  Ottawa,  Ontario,  Canada  KIG 
3V2.T 

To  order  these  books,  (24hrs,  365  days) 
please  call  (800)  962-6651  (Ext.  9500) 
or  visit  us  at  http://www.booksnow.com 


"May  1 say,  sii,  what  a pleasure  it  has  been  sniffing  your  buttV 


Books 

ELIZABETH  HAND 


The  Man  Who  Walked  to  the 
Moon,  by  Howard  McCord,  Mc- 
Pherson &.  Company,  $18. 

Into  the  Forest,  by  Jean 
Hegland,  Bantam,  $21.95. 

"Will  You  Please  Be  Quiet,  Please?" 

IF  ALL  THE 

world's  a stage, 
then  the  literature 
of  science  fiction 
and  fantasy  must  surely  make  its 
entrance  as  Bamum  — all  flour- 
ishes and  razzle  dazzle,  cheap  glam- 
our and  mad  gesticulations  as  it 
heralds  the  excitements  to  come: 
See  the  Dark  Lord  Defeated  by 
Plucky  Halflings!  Gasp  at  the 
Woman-Man,  Giving  Birth  in  a 
World  of  Winter!  Witness  the  Boy 
with  an  Accounting-Machine  in  His 
Head,  Laying  Waste  to  the  Corpo- 
rate Empires  of  the  East ! For  good  or 
ill,  we  are  a genre  of  (excessive) 
excess.  Excess  is  what  we  expect  to 
find  when  we  crack  the  spine  of 
the  latest  offering  of  Kelvin  J. 


Gatheringhood  or  M.R.R.  (nee 
Misty)  Hawkweed,  and  excess  is 
what  we  reward.  Prismatic  descrip- 
tion, global  collapse,  flamboyant 
characters  (but  not,  hilas!  charac- 
terization) and  colorful  earthy 
peoples,  World  Building  and  Subse- 
quent Destruction... our  genre  is  a 
crowded,  noisy  place,  and  thus 
usually  eschewed  by  the  literary 
mainstream  — unless  they  are 
slumming,  in  which  case  they  want 
the  noisiest  experience  available. 
White  noise  will  do  (think  Don 
DeLillo  or  William  Gibson)  and  so 
will  mad-eyed  raving  (think  Tho- 
mas Pynchon),  as  well  as  the  more 
pedestrian  fulminations  of  Thomas 
Clancy  or  David  Brin. 

This  makes  sense,  when  one 
considers  that  the  longest  shadow 
cast  across  the  American  literary 
landscape  of  the  last  twenty  years 
is  that  of  Raymond  Carver.  If  sci- 
ence fiction  and  fantasy  echo  as 
thunderclap  and  sonic  boom,  main- 
stream fiction  has  long  been  a reac- 
tionary Shhhh.  But  in  one  of  those 
odd  reversals  so  beloved  of  our 


42 


FANTASY  A,  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Victorian  ancestors,  the  main- 
stream has  of  late  seen  its  hanks 
overflow  with  sesquipedal  fabulists 
like  A.S.  Byatt  and  Arundhati  Roy 
and  David  Foster  Wallace.  Mean- 
while, the  most  striking  genre  books 
I've  encountered  this  year  have  been 
distinctly  understated;  M.  John 
Harrison's  spare,  heartwrenching 
Signs  of  Life  and  a pair  of  first  nov- 
els, Howard  McCord's  The  Man 
Who  Walked  to  the  Moon  and  Jean 
Hegland's  Into  the  Poiest. 

Howard  McCord  is  best- known 
as  an  essayist  and  poet.  The  Man 
Who  Walked  to  the  Moon  is  a no- 
vella, and  a terse  one  at  that.  Its 
narrator  is  fifty-year-old  William 
Gasper,  a self-described  assassin 
who  lives  a hermetic  existence  in 
the  arid  Steen  Mountains  of  Ne- 
vada, a desert  "as  lovely  as  new 
skin."  Gasper  is  a veteran  of  the 
Korean  War,  a Marine  sharpshooter 
and  sometime  stringer  for  the  CIA 
who  understands  guns  the  way  other 
men  understand  women. 

I was  guilty  of  capital 
crimes  in  twenty-three 
countries,  and  so  I could 
take  my  pick  of  punish- 
ments legally  due:  garrote, 
guillotine,  poison  gas,  elec- 
tricity, noose,  firing  squad, 
lethal  injection  or  batter- 


ing by  steel  bar  as  in  Uganda 
under  Amin. 

William  Gasper  rents  a pack- 
ing crate  behind  a gas  station  for 
twelve  dollars  a month,  and  sleeps 
there  when  the  weather  is  bad;  but 
most  of  his  days  are  spent  walking 
The  Moon,  a mountain  he  knows 
and  loves  as  keenly  as  his  Swiss 
9mm  SIG  P210  pistol.  "It  has  be- 
come like  no  other  mountain.  Calm 
as  I would  wish  to  be,  am.  A shadow 
taken  up  substance..."  On  The 
Moon,  Gasper  sleeps  sometimes 
within  a stone  hut  he  constructed, 
and  other  times  under  the  stars.  He 
eats  insects,  grasshoppers  and 
roasted  ants,  and  fortifies  himself 
at  sunset  with  a mouthful  of  brandy. 
"A  tot  of  cognac  and  a can  of  pears 
can  ease  the  consciousness  of  an 
Augustine  brooding  on  imagined 
sins,  or  sate  a womanless  satyr." 
Occasionally  he  downs  a grouse 
with  a stone,  and  eats  it  raw;  or 
shoots  a deer. 

I watched  them  silently  and 
admired  the  utter  simplic- 
ity of  a deer's  mind.  It  was  a 
machine  much  like  the  one 
that  hummed  between  my 
own  ears,  but  tuned  to  a 
Euclidean  shyness,  a world 
of  coherent  forms,  or  regu- 


BOOKS 


43 


larity,  and  it  lacked  ambi- 
guity to  the  extent  that  it 
was  fundamentally  alien  to 
human  consciousness, 
awash  in  the  stuff. 

William  Gasper  is  a figure  more 
familiar  to  us  from  the  pages  of  the 
daily  newspaper  than  a novel.  He  is 
the  brilliant  autodidact  who  be- 
comes the  Unabomber,  the  paid 
assassin  whose  gun  reminds  him  of 
Rilke's  panther;  the  late-century, 
murderous  Odysseus  who  stalks 
Neil  Young's  "Ambulance  Blues." 

His  existence  is  so  utterly 
stripped  down,  so  rawly  in  touch 
with  the  natural  world,  that  it  takes 
on  an  almost  voluptuous  sensual- 
ity. The  character  he  most  closely 
resembles  is  not  the  assassin  of 
DeLillo's  Libia,  but  the  postulant 
heroine  of  Ron  Hansen's  gorgeous 
Maiiette  in  Ecstasy,  another  novel 
that  probes  the  outermost  limits 
of  transcendental  experience. 
Hansen's  adolescent  Mariette 
achieves  union  with  her  Christ,  but 
McCord  raises  the  supernatural  bar 
for  his  protagonist:  he  has  Gasper 
communing  with  the  Welsh  death- 
goddess  Cerridwen,  who  first  visits 
him  in  a fishing  boat  off  the  North 
Korean  coast.  She  promises  him  that 
he'll  see  her  again  in  this  world,  "as 
well  as  when  you  die."  Hereafter 


she  appears  sporadically  to  Gasper,- 
more  often,  she  sends  her  murder- 
ous familiar  in  pursuit,  a creature 
known  as  the  Palug  cat  which,  this 
time,  manifests  itself  as  a man  with 
a British  passport,  a roll  of  Kruger- 
rands, and  a Remington  BDL  rifle. 
Gasper  kills  the  Palug  cat  as  neatly 
as  those  animals  he  slays  when  he 
grows  tired  of  eating  bugs;  then 
strips  the  man  of  valuables  and  stuffs 
the  body  in  a crevice  atop  The  Moon. 
Later  he  carries  out  more  killings 
(and  a rescue)  with  as  little  fanfare, 
and  finally  retreats  to  a "Ranch  on 
the  River  Sorrow,  where  I type  these 
words  on  an  old  Royal  440." 

The  Man  Who  Walked  to  the 
Moon  is  an  extraordinary  book.  It 
completely  confounds  one's  expec- 
tations of  the  fantastic  novel,  but 
the  mysteries  at  its  heart  — death 
and  survival,  an  almost  primeval 
experience  of  the  natural  world  — 
are  transcendental  mysteries.  Read- 
ing this  slender  volume  is  like  peer- 
ing into  the  primal  cauldron  of 
Cerridwen  herself,  and  glimpsing 
there  the  very  acts  of  death  and 
regeneration:  ghastly,  terrifying,  and 
ultimately  miraculous. 

If  this  is  a story,  it  is  not  a 
romance,  unless  Cerrid- 
wen's  doting  attention 
could  be  so  construed.  It  is. 


44 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


as  far  as  the  teller  knows,  a 
veritable  account  of  a lucid 
insanity  of  long  duration, 
an  oblique  confession,  an 
apologia  pro  viota  sua,  a fan- 
tasy spin  in  a cold  winter, 
or  out  of  night. 

Jean  Hegland's  first  book  was 
The  Life  Within:  Celebration  of  a 
Pregnancy,  a slightly  New  Ageish 
but  elegantly  penned  account  of  the 
warm  fertile  biosphere  of  parturi- 
tion. Her  first  novel.  Into  the  For- 
est, shares  the  earnestly  gravid  at- 
mosphere of  her  non-fiction  work. 
Readers  of  Mothering  Magazine  or 
parents  of  children  educated  at  Wal- 
dorf schools  will  recognize  the 
touchstones  here:  an  extremely  in- 
telligent and  artistic  nature  coupled 
with  an  ecosensitivity  that  can  be 
grating,  even  to  those  of  us  who  re- 
cycle religiously,  give  our  children 
echinacea  tincture  in  lieu  of  Robitus- 
sin  and  eschew  disposable  diapers. 

Happily,  Into  the  Forest  is  so 
thrillingly  written  that  it  becomes 
a page  turner  from  its  very  start. 
Eva  and  Nell  (and  don't  think  the 
Dickensian-American  Transcen- 
dentalist  echo  of  those  names  is  an 
accident,  buster!)  are  teenage  sis- 
ters orphaned  in  the  dark  forest  and 
left  to  rely  only  upon  their  wits  and 
each  other.  But  theirs  is  not  the. 


tangled  Victorian  wilderness  this 
premise  might  suggest.  It  is  North- 
ern California  circa  Now,  with  a 
deep  background  of  global  terror- 
ism, eco-collapse,  communications 
shutdown  and  rampant  viruses.  Said 
backdrop  is  cursorily  (though  be- 
lievably) dispensed  with  in  the  open- 
ing pages.  Distant  warfare,  killer 
bacteria:  who's  gonna  argue?  The 
two  girls  have  been  lovingly  home- 
schooled  by  their  mother,  a former 
professional  ballerina,  and  their  fa- 
ther, a school  principal-cum-handy- 
man  who  has  conveniently  outfit- 
ted their  house  with  a gas  generator 
as  well  as  50,000  baud  modems,  CD 
players  and  all  those  other  things  as 
indispensable  to  modern  life  as 
chamber  maids  and  cooks  were  to 
our  Victorian  ancestors.  Nell  has 
high  SAT  scores  and  aims  for 
Harvard;  Eva  plans  to  follow  in  her 
mother's  plies  and  join  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Ballet. 

But  then  disaster  strikes  (can- 
cer, chain  saw  accident)  and  the 
girls  are  marooned.  What  follows  is 
a beautifully  rendered  exegesis  of 
the  tactics  of  survival,  and  the  most 
realistic  portrayal  of  a near-future 
disaster  as  1 have  read. 

This  doesn't  mean  that  Into 
the  Forest  reads  as  non-fiction, 
though  Hegland  obviously  adores 
the  lavish  details  of  frontier  domes- 


BOOKS 


45 


ticity  she  recreates  here;  gathering 
wild  foods,  killing  a feral  sow,  mak- 
ing a cottage  sensibility  to  this  novel 
which  outweighs  the  occasionally 
cumbersome  plot  elements.  These 
can  be  melodramatic  — rape,  pil- 
lage, wild  beasts,  childbirth,  aban- 
donment — but  Hegland's  point  is 
that  life  in  its  essence  is  melodra- 
matic, once  you  flense  it  of  the 
distractions  of  television  and  even 
Art.  She  stacks  the  deck,  Swiss  Fam- 
ily Robinson-style,  by  giving  Eva 
and  Nell  a good  deal  of  what  they 
need  to  survive;  but  Hegland's  writ- 
ing is  so  lovely  that  I was  willing  to 
forgive  her  almost  everything.  Her 
heroines'  literary  predecessors  are 
the  two  sisters  in  Christina 
Rossetti's  "Goblin  Market,"  need- 
ing only  each  other  for  emotional 
and  physical  sustenance.  Hegland 
one-ups  those  two  by  making  her 
siblings  nearly  parthenogenic.  A 
rape  leaves  Eva  pregnant,  but  her 
baby  is  carried  to  term  and  deliv- 
ered with  as  much  aplomb  as  though 
he  were  conceived  in  vitro  — and 
when  Eva's  milk  doesn't  come  in, 
Nell  nurses  the  infant.  The  end  of 
Into  the  Forest  is  its  beginning:  the 
two  sisters  and  baby  Burl  forsake 
their  childhood  home,  burning  the 
house  behind  them  and  choosing  to 
take  their  chances  with  the  wilder- 
ness rather  than  with  the  maraud- 


ing humans  who've  started  sniffing 
around  the  place.  There  is  hope  of 
reunion  with  Nell's  lover,  and  cer- 
tainty that  the  forest  will  provide. 

I don't  buy  Hegland's  ultimate 
vision  of  humanity  re-entering 
Eden,  even  in  Northern  California. 
In  what  reads  like  a revisionist  take 
on  George  R.  Stewart's  Earth  Abides 
(1949),  brainy  Nell  lets  her  father's 
library  bum  along  with  the  failing 
homestead,  telling  herself  that " the 
life  we  were  entering  was  one  in 
which  books  would  not  matter.  I 
thought  of  Eva  waiting  for  me  in 
the  front  yard,  reminded  myself  that 
the  encyclopedia  had  abandoned  me 
during  her  labor,  that  no  book  had 
prepared  me  to  save  my  father's  life." 

But  in  fact  it  is  Nell's  very  book- 
ish intelligence  that  enables  her  to 
survive,  just  as  Eva's  kinetic 
memory  of  ballet  keeps  her  alive. 
For  the  two  sisters  to  forsake  the 
arts  that  nourished  them  seems 
slightly  churlish,  if  not  downright 
insane;  Art  sustains  us  as  much  as 
acorn  flour.  Maybe  more  so,  when 
the  barbarians  are  at  our  gates,-  when 
the  barbarians  are  us.  Still,  Into  the 
Forest  is  an  exhilarating,  visionary 
novel,  a fin-de-siecle  fairy  tale  with 
that  rarest  of  endings:  the  girls  get 
each  other,  and  a baby  boy,  and  a 
bear,  and  everyone  lives  happily 
ever  after,  in  the  woods.'T 


Editor’s  Recommendations 


cnr'’  HERE  WAS  A 

I time  when  sci- 

I ence  fiction  book 

publishing  was 
predominantly  in  paperback.  Times 
change,  economies  shift,  and  nowa- 
days it  seems  like  hardcovers  get 
the  lion's  share  of  attention.  But 
there  are  plenty  of  books  coming 
out  now  in  mass-market  format, 
and  after  bingeing  on  them  this 
month  I found  lots  worth  reading. 

Scott  Westerfeld's  Polymorph 
(Roc)  features  a title  character  bom 
with  the  ability  to  change  shape  — 
or  gender  — with  a little  mental 
exertion.  Mostly  s/he  uses  the  abil- 
ity for  kicks  eking  out  a living  in 
near-future  New  York,  but  when 
love  and  another  polymorph  enter 
the  picture,  things  get  complicated. 
The  plot  never  quite  reached  boil- 
ing temperature  for  me,  but  the 
ideas  of  this  post-cyberpunk  story 
are  good  and  the  future  downtown 
club  scene  has  some  very  nice 
touches. 

Speaking  of  ideas,  Howard  V. 


Hendrix's  debut  Lightpaths  (Ace) 
has  lots  of  them  — about  utopia, 
science,  the  future  — and  never 
lacks  for  characters  to  expound 
them.  This  is  a Novel  of  Big  Ideas 
and  won't  satisfy  readers  looking 
for  deep  characterization,  but 
there's  enough  provocative  thought 
here  to  make  the  speechifying 
worthwhile. 

Final  Orbit  by  S.  V.  Date  was 
shelved  in  the  sf  section  because  of 
its  starscape  cover  and  the  title,  but 
it's  actually  a thriller  featuring  a 
retired  astronaut  and  murders 
linked  to  NASA.  Had  this  book  been 
written  thirty  years  ago,  it  might 
have  become  an  sf  classic  purely  for 
its  knowledgeable  portrait  of  the 
space  program.  Nowadays,  it's  mi- 
metic fiction,  not  speculative.  I call 
that  progress. 

The  New  Hugo  Winners  Vol. 
IV  edited  by  Gregory  Benford  (Baen) 
reliably  assembles  the  '92-'94  win- 
ners, but  you're  mistaken  if  you 
think  this  is  a collection  of  Connie 
Willis's  short  stories:  only  two  of 


EDITOR'S  RECOMMENDATIONS 

the  nine  tales  have  her  byline.  Janet 
Kagan,  Geoffrey  Landis,  and  Lucius 
Shepard  contribute  other  memo- 
rable winners. 

Last  year's  World  Fantasy 
Award  ballot  pointed  out  a novel  I'd 
missed  otherwise,  a funky  alter- 
nate history  set  in  the  Wild  West, 
Devil’s  Tower  by  Mark  Sumner. 
Buffalo  Bill  Cody  saddles  up  now 
for  the  sequel,  Devil’s  Engine  (Del 
Rey),  and  it's  good  fun  with  lots  of 
resonance  to  the  tale  of  magic  — 
"talents"  — loose  in  the  West. 

From  the  West  to  the  Far  East: 
Black  Mist  and  Other  Japanese 
Futures  (Daw),  edited  by  Orson 
Scott  Card  and  Keith  Ferrell,  is  one 
of  the  better  recent  original  antholo- 
gies. There  are  only  five  stories  in 
the  300  pages  here,  so  the  writers 
(including  Pat  Cadigan  and  Richard 
A.  Lupoff ) don't  have  to  cramp  their 
styles.  Four  out  of  the  five  hit  the 
mark  for  me. 

Bodekker’s  Demons  by  Joe 
Clifford  Faust  (Bantam)  is  a scamp 
of  a book,  poking  fun  at  the  world  of 
advertising  by  blending  it  with  gangs 
of  the  future.  Disregard  the  rumor 
claiming  that  the  prequel,  Ferman  ’s 
Devils,  detailed  the  doings  of  Mer- 
cury Press  employees  — those  same 
gangsters  show  up  here  and  any 


47 

coincidental  resemblance  to  per- 
sons living  or  dead  escaped  me. 

Michael  Shea's  The  Mines  of 
Behemoth  (Baen)  is  the  sort  of  fan- 
tasy adventure  I rarely  read  nowa- 
days — perhaps  because  people 
rarely  write  them  as  well  as  does 
Shea.  He's  a joy  to  read. 

Carlucci’s  Heart  by  Richard 
Paul  Russo  (Ace)  has  a good  noir 
taste  to  it  without  feeling  over- 
done. The  story  of  a nasty  virus  in 
the  future  feels  a bit  too  long,  but  it's 
well  worth  reading  for  the  twists  at 
the  end. 

Tricia  Sullivan's  Someone  to 
Watch  over  Me  (Bantam  Spectra)  is 
another  long  one,  a cyberpunky  in- 
quiry into  identity  that  rages  across 
Eastern  Europe.  Sullivan  writes 
with  the  fluid  grace  of  a natural 
storyteller  and  is  rapidly  develop- 
ing into  a first-rate  novelist. 

And  if  you  do  venture  into  the 
realm  of  hardcovers.  Pulp  Art  by 
Robert  Lesser  (Gramercy  Books) 
features  great  reproductions  of  clas- 
sic work  by  Frank  R.  Paul,  Virgil 
Finlay,  and  a few  others.  Detective 
pulps,  war  stories,  jungle  adven- 
tures and  sf  all  get  their  due  — 
you're  likely  to  find  the  aviation 
illustrations  as  interesting  the  sf 
pulp  covers. 


-GVG 


There’s  a classic  anecdote  about  the  great  Satchel  Paige  pitching  a game  that  was 
about  to  be  called  on  account  of  darkness.  (That’s  right — there  were  no  stadium 
lights  in  the  1940s  and  ’50s.)  The  umpire  was  persuaded  to  let  the  game  go  one 
more  inning,  and  Paige  then  proceeded  to  strike  out  the  other  side  on  ten  pitches. 
When  a teammate  chided  him  about  needing  ten  pitches,  Paige  remarked  "’The 
ump  missed  one.  ” 

Rick  Wilber’s  father  was  catching  in  the  big  leagues  back  then  (for  the  other 
St.  Louis  club),  so  it’s  no  surprise  that  the  spirit  of  an  elder  burler  should  be  the 
one  to  pass  on  an  important  lesson  about  sliders  and  fastballs  and  things  in  this 
tale. 


Straight  Changes 

By  Rick  Wilber 


I 


T IS  THE  TOP  OF  THE  NINTH, 

and  the  Worden  Pirates  hold  a one-run  lead. 
This  is  along  the  lines  of  a miracle.  Johnny 
O.,  on  the  bench  between  innings,  reminded 
the  Pirates  that  they  haven't  won  an  opening  game  since,  since,  well,  he 
can't  remember.  Certainly  never  in  the  ten  years  he's  been  catching. 

Dan  Carlow  walks  out  to  the  mound,  just  shaking  his  head  at  the 
thought  of  it.  Base  hits,  stolen  bases,  hit-and-runs,  sacrifice  flies  — the 
Pirates  have  somehow  managed  them  all  and  built  up  a 4-3  lead.  Now  all 
Dan  has  to  do  is  hang  onto  it.  This  is  not,  of  course,  an  easy  thing  for  a 
weekend  pitcher,  who  by  rights  should  be  home  typing  up  his  column  for 
tomorrow's  Tribune,  not  out  here  pretending  he  can  still  pitch,  even  at 
this  humble  level,  a semi-pro  senior  men's  league. 

Dan  takes  a warm-up  pitch,  his  arm  so  tired  he  isn't  sure,  as  he  goes 
into  the  wind-up,  if  he  can  even  get  the  ball  over  the  plate. 

He  lets  it  go,  and  sure  enough  the  ball  hits  in  front  of  the  plate  and 
skips  by  Johnny  O.,  who  gets  up  from  his  crouch  to  walk  back  to  the  screen 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


49 


and  get  the  ball.  Watching  him,  Dan  sees  his  dad  in  the  stands,  up  in  the 
top  row  behind  home. 

Of  course  it  isn't  Dad,  can't  be.  It's  just  an  old  guy  sitting  there  who 
looks  a bit  like  him,  that  same  old  worn  Cardinal  cap,  the  same  way  he 
leans  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  watching  the  game  intently. 

Dad  died  last  summer,  damn  it,  toward  the  end  of  the  season.  On  a 
Sunday.  The  memories  of  that  day  come  to  Dan  unbidden,  like  they 
always  do,  always  there  with  him,  ready  to  surface  at  any  time.  The  car, 
the  exhaust,  the  hose,  the  tape,  the  vomit  in  the  lap  — the  cessation,  the 
surrender. 

Dan  shakes  his  head  to  try  and  clear  the  memory  of  it.  He  still  sees  his 
dad  in  too  many  places,  thinks  of  him  too  often. 

Frank  Carlow  was  a solid  minor  leaguer  in  the  Cardinals'  chain  back 
in  the  late  nineteen-thirties  and  pre-war  forties,  a real  prospect.  He  was 
called  up  to  the  big  club  in  September  of  '41,  was  on  his  way. 

And  then  came  Pearl  Harbor  and  the  war,  so  Frank's  career  plans 
changed  and  he  became  a weather  observer,  flying  in  bombers  over  Italy 
and  the  Balkans,  nearly  got  killed  but  got  put  back  together,  fell  in  love 
with  an  American  nurse  and  wound  up  married  and  back  in  St.  Louis,  that 
shattered  left  leg  ending  his  playing  days  but  not  his  love  for  the  game. 

So  he  turned  to  coaching,  was  good  at  it,  wound  up  being  a career 
minor  league  manager,  helping  the  young  kids  with  that  dream  to  make 
it  to  the  big  leagues. 

Two  or  three  times  he  was  rumored  to  be  in  line  for  a big  league 
managing  job,  and  every  now  and  then  he  came  up  to  coach  for  the  big  club. 
He  earned  a reputation  as  one  of  the  good  ones,  a laborer  in  the  fields  of 
professional  ball.  But  Frank  never  won  a pennant,  not  a single  one,  in 
Tidewater  or  Denver  or  Spokane,  or  anywhere  else  — not  a one. 

And  it  ate  at  him,  grew  and  enlarged  over  the  years  until  it  became  the 
major  frustration  of  his  life.  Until  the  cancer,  that  sure  changed  his 
perspective. 

Dan  stands  on  the  mound,  tired.  He  looks  in  toward  the  dugout  and 
sees  Jimmy,  his  son,  in  there  arranging  the  bats  in  perfect  order  in  the  dirt, 
smallest  to  largest.  Next  to  them,  the  helmets,  set  with  the  bills  forward, 
are  just  so.  Jimmy  looks  up,  sees  Dan,  waves,  yells  something  at  him.  Dan 
smiles.  What  a kid,  what  a terrific  kid. 


50 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


Dan  takes  another  warm-up.  The  ball  floats  lazily  in  toward  the  plate, 
so  fat  it  looks  like  slow-pitch  softball.  His  arm  feels  dead.  This  is  the  first 
game  of  the  season  and  he  only  planned  to  go  four  or  five  innings;  but  it 
turns  out  the  Pirates  only  have  nine  players  today  and  he's  the  only 
pitcher,  so  tired  or  not,  he's  on  the  mound. 

What  he  needs,  he  thinks,  is  one  of  those  mechanical  arms  the  old 
pitching  machines  had,  the  ones  where  the  metal  arm  just  wound  up  tight 
on  its  spring  and  then  let  loose,  flinging  the  ball  in  toward  the  plate. 

Two  days  before,  on  a sultry  Friday  evening,  Dan  took  Jimmy  with 
him  and  drove  away  from  Lakeland,  taking  the  back  roads  north  of  1-4  past 
the  strawberry  fields  and  dairies  and  Florida  scrub  until  he  reached  the  east 
side  of  Tampa  and  the  batting  cages  on  Busch  Boulevard. 

It  is  tacky,  touristy  Florida  there,  a world  away  from  the  simple- 
minded  complacency  of  Lakeland.  Down  the  road  a half  mile  is  Busch 
Gardens  and  a park  full  of  happy  Ohioans  and  Michiganders  looping  the 
loop  and  buying  trinkets  and  monorailing  past  the  animals  in  their  pocket 
Serengeti. 

And  there,  just  east  of  the  thirty-nine  dollar  admission  ticket  that 
buys  a day  full  of  fun  and  a tour  of  the  brewery,  are  the  batting  cages. 

In  the  cages,  for  fifty  cents,  a machine  pumps  out  ten  f astballs  and  Dan 
can  get  into  the  groove,  hit  after  hit,  letting  it  all  flow  together.  The  zen 
of  the  swing.  He  has  found  some  good,  simple  truths  in  those  batting 
cages. 

These  machines  are  ancient,  have  been  there  for  years,  circling, 
stopping  on  their  way  to  receive  a ball  from  the  basket  and  then  whipping 
over  the  top  to  deliver  the  pitch,  straight  and  hard,  always  at  the  same 
prescribed  speed.  Talk  about  your  pitching  mechanics,  Dan  thinks. 

There  is  a primal  fulfillment  in  those  cages.  No  guessing,  no  waiting 
for  the  breaking  ball,  no  doubts  about  life's  little  change-ups.  Just  straight 
balls,  coming  at  you,  and  swing. 

Dan  likes  the  seventy- mile-an-hour  machine  best.  It  is  fast  enough  to 
be  a challenge  but  still  hittable  for  him.  The  eighty  is  nearly  impossible, 
and  he  can't  imagine  anyone  hitting  a ninety-mile-an-hour  pitch. 

It  is  good,  as  he  loosens  up  to  start  the  final  inning,  to  think  of  those 
machines  with  their  mechanical  arms  that  never  tire,  never  ache  for  the 
next  four  or  five  days. 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


51 


Or  never  win  a game  either,  he  reminds  himself.  There  are  pluses  to 
the  pain.  All  it  takes  is  a certain  dedication,  a certain  commitment. 

The  batting  cages  were  fun,  Dan  and  Jimmy  spending  four  or  five 
dollars  on  the  machines  and  then  going  out  for  pizza. 

Jimmy,  especially,  had  a wonderful  time,  swinging  away  at  the 
slowest  machine,  now  and  then  catching  hold  of  one  to  rattle  it  around  the 
enclosure.  The  kid  flat-out  loved  it.  Every  time  he  hit  one  he  did  a little 
victory  dance,  almost  getting  plunked  once  or  twice  by  the  next  pitch  — 
Dan  had  to  yell  at  him  that  the  machines  weren't  going  to  wait  for  him  to 
celebrate. 

Flawed,  wonderful  Jimmy. 

When  Jimmy  was  born,  twenty  years  ago,  Dan  was  waiting  outside 
the  delivery  room,  the  classic  pacing  father-to-be,  when  the  doctor  came 
out  to  "have  a word  with  you  about  your  son." 

Down's  syndrome,  the  doctor  explained.  Mentally  retarded.  "He'll 
never  be  normal,  Mr.  Carlow,"  the  doctor  said.  "He'll  always  be  slow." 

The  doctor  recommended  that  they  put  the  baby  into  an  institution 
right  away,  said  that  would  be  best  for  everyone.  But  this  was  Dan's  boy, 
his  own  first-bom  son,  and  so  Dan  said  no,  we'll  keep  him.  Sally,  in  her 
hospital  bed  cuddling  the  baby,  said  she  felt  the  same  way. 

A couple  of  years  later  she  changed  her  mind.  There  was  a lot  of 
shouting,  a lot  of  tears,  a boyfriend.  Dan  got  the  house,  the  car,  and  Jimmy. 
Sally  got  her  freedom. 

Dan  hears  the  echoes  of  those  times  as  he  watches  the  boy:  He'll  always 
be  slow.  And  yeah,  that  is  certainly  the  case,  has  been  for  these  twenty 
years.  But  slow  doesn't  begin  to  explain  Jimmy,  or  what  he  means  to  Dan. 

The  kid,  you  see,  can  see  things  clearly,  see  things  honestly  in  this 
murky,  gray  old  world.  Dan  loves  the  boy  for  that,  for  his  innocence  and 
honesty.  He  wishes  he  could  find  more  of  that  essential  goodness  in 
himself,  to  tell  the  truth. 

Just  this  morning  Jimmy  proved  it  again.  He  left  a note  for  them,  for 
Dan  and  his  girlfriend  Michelle.  When  Dan  stumbled,  groggy  with  sleep, 
into  the  kitchen  and  poured  himself  that  first  cup  of  coffee,  Michelle  was 
already  up,  reading  the  note,  crying. 

Dan  wishes  he  loved  Michelle.  She  is  a terrific  person,  a caring  lover, 
and  seems  to  understand  his  limitations. 


52 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


He  ought  to  treat  her  better,  be  able  to  offer  her  more  than  he  does.  But 
marriage  is  certainly  not  on  his  list  and  doesn't  seem  to  be  on  hers,  either. 
She  has  her  two  past  divorces,  and  he  has  Jimmy  and  the  vicious  scene  he 
and  the  boy  went  through  with  Jimmy's  mom  when  she  screamed  at  the 
poor  kid  while  Jimmy  stood  there,  silent.  She  said  she  couldn't  take  it 
anymore,  just  couldn't  damn  handle  it,  and  left.  Even  after  all  these  years, 
Dan  doesn't  dare  risk  that  again. 

Last  night,  when  Michelle  made  her  httle  annovmcement,  showed  why. 

The  two  of  them  were  in  the  kitchen  where  Dan  was  rummaging 
around  in  a drawer  looking  for  a corkscrew,  when  Michelle  said  "Danny? " 

He  didn't  like  the  sound  of  that,  and  turned  to  look  at  her,  saying  nothing. 

"Danny,  I have  to  talk  about  something.  About  someone." 

"Uh-oh,"  he  said,  and  tried  to  smile.  Damn.  They  both  always  knew 
that  something  like  this  might  happen,  had  even  talked  about  it  over  the 
years,  about  how  their  relationship  was  really  fine,  but,  well,  if  the  real 
thing  came  along  for  her  ... 

"Danny,  I met  this  guy.  He  works  over  at  the  college,  a professor." 

"And?" 

"And  I like  him.  He's  a good  man.  Divorced  a few  years  back  and 
looking  to  settle  down.  He's  a little  serious,  maybe.  But  he's  stable,  and 
awfully  nice." 

"Awfully  nice,"  Dan  said. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  firmly.  "He's  awfully  nice.  And  he's  a Christian.  The 
real  thing,  bom  again  and  everything." 

"You're  joking,  Michelle.  Really?" 

She  laughed,  "Well,  yeah,  he's  a little  odd  about  that,  odd  about  a 
couple  of  things,  actually." 

"Odd?" 

"But,  Danny,  I really  like  him.  He's  good  to  talk  to,  he  doesn't  just  talk 
about  sports  all  the  time,  he's..." 

"Ouch,"  Dan  said,  and  could  only  smile. 

"But,  yeah,  he's  a little  odd.  Like  about  sex.  He  really  thinks  we 
should  wait,  see  how  serious  it  gets,  he  says,  before  getting  that  involved. 
I think  maybe  he's  thinking  about  marriage,  and  would  want  to  wait  for 
that,  even."  She  shrugged.  "It's  a religious  thing,  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  he  said,  picking  up  the  wine  and  peeling  back  the  metallic 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


53 


cap  before  starting  in  with  the  corkscrew.  "Well,  hell,  Michelle,  I think 
that's  great.  I'm  happy  for  you.  He's  luckier  than  he  knows.  He's  very,  very 
lucky.  You're  a wonderful  woman." 

She  blushed,  walked  over  to  him.  "Thank  you,  Dan.  I knew  you'd 
understand." 

He  poured  her  a glass  of  the  wine.  Now  what? 

"Well, " he  said,  "here's  to  you  and  your  new  friend, " and  he  raised  his 
glass  to  clink  it  with  hers. 

She  sipped,  smiled,  sipped  again. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "this  does  sort  of  change  the  equation  of  things 
for  us  a little." 

"A  little? " All  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  was  phrase  short  questions. 
Damn. 

"Yes,  Danny.  But  only  a little,  really.  Look,  I'm  just  starting  to  get  to 
know  this  guy.  I just  wanted  you  to  know  that,  that's  all,  really.  So  there 
wouldn't  be  any  surprises  later,  you  know?" 

"Later?" 

"Oh,  Danny.  He's  a really  fine  man,  but  he's  so,  so,  well,  cautious  all 
the  time,  you  know  what  I mean? 

He  almost  said  "Cautious?"  but  held  off,  just  looked  at  her  instead. 

"And  I'm  not  quite  ready  for  nothing  but  all  that  caution,  Danny.  Not 
quite  ready,  you  understand?  I mean,  I want  to  keep  dating  him,  see  how 
it  goes.  But  that  doesn't  mean..." 

She  walked  over  to  him,  leaned  up  and  kissed  him. 

He  understood. 

They  walked  into  the  front  living  room.  Michelle  went  over  to  the 
stack  of  CDs  and  picked  a favorite,  clicked  it  into  the  machine,  turned  to 
look  at  Dan. 

He  held  out  his  arms  so  that  she  would  come  into  them  with  a smile, 
and  they  started  dancing  to  "Avalon,"  an  old  Roxy  Music  song. 

As  they  danced  Michelle  slowly  unbuckled  his  belt,  pulled  it  from  his 
pants,  giggled  as  she  threw  it  onto  the  couch.  Then,  slowly,  while  the  song 
talked  about  seduction  and  momentary  perfection,  she  undid  his  shirt 
buttons  one  by  one,  scratching  his  chest  in  between. 

They  made  love  for  hours.  Michelle  wasn't  on  the  pill,  and  didn't  want 
to  use  the  diaphragm  and  messy  cream,  so  it  was  always  up  to  Dan  to  hold 


54 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


back,  and  the  lack  of  climax  seemed  to  keep  him  going  damn  near  right 
through  the  night. 

And  she  flowed  so  well  along  with  him,  just  languidly,  timelessly, 
rolling  and  deeply  laughing  and  nibbling  here  and  there  and  cuddling  and 
cupping  and  then  slowly  rolling  again. 

Her  skin.  Jesus  God  he  liked  skin  that  smooth.  And  her  thighs,  her 
strong,  supple  thighs:  they  just  did  not  let  go  for  what  seemed  like  hours 
— was  hours . And  the  strange  softness  of  her  lips  when  she  was  half  asleep . 
He  leaned  over  her,  kissed  them,  and  then,  finally,  fell  asleep. 


HEN,  IN  THE  MORNING,  she  was  up  early, 
I trying  to  get  herself  dressed  and  organized  before  Jimmy 

I — a late  riser  most  days  — woke  up  and  came  wandering 
in  to  check  on  Dad.  Dan,  waking  up,  heard  her  in  the 
bathroom,  and  then  heard  the  footsteps  heading  downstairs,  to  the 
kitchen,  he  guessed,  to  make  some  coffee. 

Downstairs,  when  he  got  there,  the  coffee  maker  was  bubbling  away 
and  Michelle  sat  over  by  the  table,  reading  that  letter. 

"Look  at  this,"  she  said,  and  held  up  a piece  of  paper  from  Dan's 
computer  printer,  the  perforated  holes  still  attached  to  it. 

"For  My  Dad"  it  read  across  the  top  of  the  paper. 

"What  is  this?"  Dan  said,  and  took  it  from  her. 

"It's  from  Jimmy.  He  must  have  done  it  last  night  while  we  were  out. 
Take  a look." 

Jimmy  was  pretty  good  with  the  computer.  Played  some  of  the  games, 
seemed  to  know  his  way  around  in  it  all  right.  Dan  didn't  know  his  son  was 
writing  with  it,  though. 

Dan  read  the  sheet,  and  then  just  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"This  probably  took  him  an  hour  to  write.  Hell,  he's  something,  isn't 

he?" 


Michelle  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  nodded.  "He  is  that,  Danny,  he  is 
that.  He's  really  something." 

Dan  put  the  sheet  back  on  the  table.  "I'll  leave  it  here  for  him.  You 
coming  to  the  game  this  afternoon?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,  Dan.  Maybe,"  Michelle  said,  pouring  a cupful  of 
coffee.  "Can  I take  the  coffee  with'me?" 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


55 


"Sure.  Gotta  go  right  now?" 

"I  think  so.  Yes.  I do,  I have  to  go  now." 

She  stood,  leaned  over  to  kiss  him,  smiled  and  left.  He  was  sipping  on 
his  coffee,  looking  over  the  headlines  on  the  front  page  of  the  Tribune, 
when  he  heard  her  car  start  up. 

A few  minutes  later  Jimmy  came  down,  rubbing  his  eyes,  grinning, 
ready  for  breakfast.  Dan  gave  his  son  a good-moming  hug  and  got  started 
on  the  eggs  and  hash  browns. 

Jimmy,  sipping  on  his  own  cup  of  coffee,  said  "Big  day  today.  Dad, 
right?  New  season." 

"Right,  Jimmy.  Pirates  are  going  all  the  way  this  year.  All  the  way. 
Championship.  Betcha  a hundred  dollars." 

"You  on.  Dad.  Hundred  dollars,"  Jimmy  said.  And  then  he  laughed, 
getting  the  joke. 

The  letter  went  like  this: 

Jimmy  Carlow 

Lakeland  Florida 

This  is:  My  letter  to  my  dad 
Hello  my  Dad, 

I like  you.  This  will  be  fun  for  me. 

I like  it  typing,  and  I like  writing  like  you,  like  my  Dad.  You  are  a good 
man.  Your  name  is  Dan  Carlow.  I am  Jimmy.  Your  best  son. 

Grandpa  says  hello  to  you.  My  dad.  I see  him  sometimes.  Grandpa 
says  I be  proud  of  you,  and  of  me,  too! 

I work  hard  at  McDonald's.  I clean  it  the  lobby  and  I make  buns  and, 
sometimes,  I make  it  the  fries,  too.  I like  it.  A lot! 

You  work  at  it  the  newspaper.  You  write  three  (one,  two,  three) 
collums  a weak.  You  are  famous  and  a good  pitcher  too.  I am  proud  of  You, 
and  You  are  Proud  of  me,  two. 


56 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


I be  batboy  for  Worden  Pirates!  I keep  it  the  bats  just  right.  And  the 
helmets.  This  is  hard  work,  and  I like  it.  A lot!  My  dad  is  pitcher  for  Pirates 
for  many  years.  I be  batboy  for  many  years.  We  are  a team.  We  have  fun. 
We  try  hard. 

I keep  it  my  own  room  in  our  house.  It  is  clean.  I am  cooking  now  too 
for  my  dad.  Hot  dogs  and  pot  pies  too. 

My  dad's  girl  friend  is  michelle.  She  is  nice  girl.  I like  her.  a lot.  We 
go  for  drives  in  her  fast  car  on  sometimes.  She  likes  to  smile.  I like  her.  A 
lot! 

This  week,  on  Friday,  I visit  Group  Home,  people  there  say  I could  live 
in  Group  Home.  I could  to.  I would  love  it  there..  And  be  an  adult. 

I love  my  Dad. 

(I  spell  check  this  like  my  dad  shows  me.  It  works  grate!) 

Jimmy  Carlow 
Lakeland  Florida 

A few  weeks  ago  Dan  got  a call  from  the  local  agency.  They  had  a place 
lined  up  where  Jimmy  could  go  and  live  pretty  much  on  his  own,  a group 
home  they  called  it.  The  agency  people  thought  Jimmy  could  actually 
handle  that,  could  live  in  his  own  little  apartment  in  this  special  complex, 
a place  where  he'd  have  someone  to  help  out  when  he  needed  it  — a 
"coach"  they  called  it.  Otherwise,  Jimmy  would  be  expected  to  make  it  on 
his  own. 

Dan  has  his  doubts. 

Jimmy  is  such  a kid  in  so  many  ways.  Dan  has  spent  twenty  years 
watching  this  boy's  halting  growth,  encouraging  him,  guiding  him, 
protecting  him.  Dan  doesn't  know  if  he  is  ready  to  see  Jimmy  have  to  face 
this  mean  old  world  on  his  own. 

At  the  batting  cages,  Jimmy  really  tagged  the  machine's  last  pitch. 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


57 


sending  a line  drive  up  the  middle  and  banging  it  hard  off  the  back  of  the 
cage.  Jimmy  laughed  and  danced  around,  yelling  about  home  runs  and 
world  series  and  winning.  Dan  laughed  with  him  and  then,  tired  of 
knocking  the  balls  around  the  screened-in  cage,  he  talked  Jimmy  into 
quitting  and  they  headed  for  CDB's  and  some  pizza. 

WHEN  DAN  WAS  A KID  his  dad  took  him  to 

those  same  cages,  and  they  weren't  even  screened  in 
back  in  the  sixties,  they  didn't  have  any  limit  on  how 
far  you  could  hit  the  ball.  You  could  watch  it  soar  into 
the  night  sky  if  you  really  caught  hold  of  one,  watch  it  land  and  roll  out 
onto  the  golf  driving  range  that  used  to  be  there. 

The  driving  range  is  an  apartment  complex  now,  OakHaven  Village, 
one  of  those  stucco- walled  complexes  that  cater  to  Tampa's  wannabes  — 
the  ones  who  still  believe  in  the  entrepreneurial  dreamland  that  Florida 
bills  itself  as. 

His  dad  took  him  there  once  a week  that  one  long  glorious  summer 
when  Danny  was  ten.  The  two  of  them  would  swing  away,  twenty  pitches 
for  a dime,  until  they  were  good  and  tired.  Then  came  Dairy  Queen  and 
root  beer  floats  on  the  way  home. 

It  was  always  a good  time,  getting  away  from  Mom  and  her  crazies  and 
the  fights  she  had  with  Dad  and  the  screaming  and  even  the  shattering 
crash  of  the  emptied  glasses.  Wonderful  times.  Poor  Dad,  putting  up  with 
that  for  all  those  years  before  Mom  finally  left  and  went  West. 

And  now  Dan  is  facing  the  forty  mark  and  the  batting  cages  are  fenced 
in  tight  all  the  way  around.  And  Dad  is  gone,  and  Mom  is  still  crazy  out 
in  California  somewhere,  still  puttering  around  with  her  sculpture  and 
her  poetry  and  drinking  her  carrot  juice  in  the  morning  and  her  wine  — 
"It's  just  wine,  that's  all,  just  a few  glasses  of  wine"  — all  night.  He 
wonders  when  he  might  hear  from  her  again,  get  another  of  those  strange, 
rambling  middle-of-the-night  phone  calls.  It's  been  a long  time. 

It's  time  to  get  serious.  Dan  looks  down  at  the  first  hitter  of  the  inning, 
a chubby  boy  who  doesn't  have  much  power  but  got  the  bat  on  the  ball  last 
time  up.  John  gives  the  signal,  one  finger  down  toward  the  dirt,  fastball. 
Dan  goes  into  his  wind-up. 


58 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


And  it  feels  good,  stride  and  release,  machine-like  for  the  moment, 
the  ball  dipping  a bit  at  the  end.  A nice  sinker,  strike  one  as  the  boy 
watches  it  go  by. 

The  balls  in  the  batting  cages,  the  ones  from  those  pitching  machines, 
never  sink,  never  tire,  never  change.  Dependable,  trustworthy  — as  long 
as  the  metal  arm  keeps  whipping  over  the  top  and  then  lets  it  go,  strike, 
strike,  strike. 

Dan  lets  another  one  go,  a fastball  sinker.  The  chubby  kid  swings  and 
chops  it  into  the  dirt  foul,  strike  two. 

Dan  takes  a deep  breath,  feeling  okay  for  the  moment.  He  glances  at 
the  dugout,  can  see  Jimmy  in  there,  sitting  over  at  the  end  of  the  bench, 
having  one  of  those  conversations  with  himself  that  he's  been  having 
lately,  chatting  up  a storm,  gesturing,  laughing,  talking  to  himself.  Dan 
asked  him  about  it  the  other  day,  about  who  he's  talking  to.  Jimmy  said 
it  was  Grandpa.  Dan  smiled,  ruffled  the  boy's  hair,  gave  him  a hug. 

Frank  had  loved  the  kid,  doted  on  him,  coached  him  in  playing 
basketball  and  baseball,  tried  to  help  the  boy  with  his  pitching,  just  seeing 
if  he  could  teach  Jimmy  to  throw  a strike,  just  one,  all  the  way  from  the 
mound  to  home. 

"That  kid  tries  so  damn  hard, " he  told  Dan  once,  shaking  his  head.  "If 
I'd  had  a few  more  like  him,  trying  that  hard.  I'd  have  won  a dozen 
goddamn  pennants." 

Dan  had  laughed.  Now,  on  the  mound,  Dan  remembers  how  Frank 
had  coached  him,  too,  worked  on  his  fastball,  his  slider,  his  straight- 
change,  the  one  that  looked  like  a fastball  but  came  in  so  much  slower. 

That  was  the  secret  with  the  straight  change,  the  way  it  looked  like 
it  was  going  to  be  one  thing  but  turned  out  to  be  something  else  entirely. 
It  worked  because  it  was  different.  It  always  seemed  risky  to  Dan,  so  fat 
as  it  floated  up  there. 

But  Frank  loved  it,  he  always  said,  because  "It's  a fooler,  that  change- 
up.  You  use  it  right,  when  they  don't  expect  it,  and  you'll  get  some  strike- 
outs with  it,  son.  Guaranteed.  You  just  have  to  know  when's  the  right 
time  for  it." 

On  the  other  hand.  Dad  hated  the  sinker,  Danny's  favorite  pitch.  He 
cursed  it  for  its  unreliability. 

"Son,"  he  asked  him  once  after  a Pirates'  game,  "how  can  you  like 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


59 


using  any  damn  pitch  that  gets  better  as  you  get  more  tired?  Hell,  you  can't 
trust  the  damn  thing.  Sometimes  it  sinks,  sometimes  it  doesn't.  You're 
lucky  the  hitters  in  this  league  are  so  terrible." 

Dan  remembers  laughing  at  that.  They  lost  that  game  by  five  or  six 
runs,  including  a couple  of  sinkers  that  flattened  out  and  turned  into  home 
runs.  Oh,  well.  Hard  to  argue  with  the  old  guy  sometimes. 

Thing  is,  Dan  likes  the  sinker,  maybe  because  of  its  unpredictability. 
It's  a little  like  a knuckle  ball  in  that  way.  Could  be  great,  could  be  awful. 
Like  life. 

He  throws  another  sinker  in  and  the  chubby  kid  goes  for  it,  swinging 
weakly  but  topping  it  so  it  trickles  out  toward  the  mound.  Dan  comes  off 
the  mound,  grabs  it  cleanly  with  his  bare  right  hand,  and  turns  to  throw 
it  to  Tommy  at  first.  But  his  arm,  his  shoulder,  can't  handle  this  new 
movement,  throwing  from  a different  position,  and  the  ball  sails  high  on 
him,  riding  over  Tommy's  outstretched  glove  and  out  into  the  open  field 
past  the  stands  in  short  right. 

Stevie,  out  in  right,  has  to  run  like  the  devil  to  go  get  it  and  hold  the 
runner  to  second. 

Terrific,  thinks  Dan.  Instead  of  an  easy  out  I put  the  tying  run  in 
scoring  position.  Just  super. 

He  tries  to  bear  down,  wants  to  concentrate.  But  the  oppressive  heat 
has  taken  a toll,  certainly,  and  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  he's  so  tired  that 
he  feels  sort  of  disconnected  from  the  game.  He  walks  the  next  guy  on  four 
pitches. 

Dan  stands  on  the  mound,  hands  on  his  hips,  glove  folded  back,  and 
tries  not  to  show  how  tired  he  is.  Damn,  any  other  team  in  the  universe 
would  have  a reliever  in  by  now,  but  this  is  the  Worden  Pirates,  and  there 
is  no  reliever,  no  bench.  Just  the  nine  of  them  today,  and  none  of  the  others 
can  pitch. 

Hell.  Dan  walks  back  off  the  mound  and  tries  to  gather  himself 
together.  Just  get  the  ball  over  the  plate,  he  says  to  himself,  and  hope  for 
the  best.  Don't  worry  about  the  arm,  don't  think  about  it.  Just  no  more 
walks,  at  least  be  sure  of  that.  No  more  walks,  nothing  for  free. 

He  gets  back  onto  the  mound,  kicks  a little  dirt  into  the  hole  in  front 
of  the  rubber  so  he'll  have  a better  footing,  and  then  goes  into  the  stretch. 
Jesus,  his  arm  feels  dead. 


60 


FANTASY  Cl.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


He  lets  the  pitch  go,  a sinker  right  down  the  middle.  Dan  doesn't  have 
much  stuff  on  the  ball,  he  is  far  too  tired  for  that  and  the  ball  stays  up  flat 
and  fat,  never  does  sink.  But  the  hitter,  expecting  a breaking  ball,  gets 
caught  with  the  bat  on  his  shoulder  and  watches  the  fat  thing  float  by  for 
strike  one. 

"Got  away  with  that  one,  Danny.  Got  lucky,"  says  a voice  from 
behind  the  mound.  Dan,  taking  the  throw  back  from  Johnny  O.,  turns  to 
see  who  said  it  but  there  is  no  one  there.  Weird. 

"Look,  you  don't  have  enough  stuff  to  make  that  sinker  work 
anymore,  Danny,  and  you  know  it." 

Damn.  Sounds  like  Dad,  that  raspy  voice  that  almost  whispered 
toward  the  end. 

"Yeah,  Danny,  it's  me,  sure  enough,"  says  the  voice. 

By  god,  it  is  his  dad.  What  the  hell? 

There  is  a chuckle.  "I  don't  know.  Beats  me,  too,  son.  But  here  I am." 

Dan  comes  off  the  mound,  confused,  dizzy  with  the  heat  and  this 
hallucination.  A stroke?  A fainting  spell?  Heat  prostration? 

"Nah,  son,  none  of  that,"  his  dad  says.  "Just  old  Frank  Carlow,  back 
for  a little  game  of  ball  with  his  son  Danny,  that's  all.  It's  just  me." 

"Dad?" 

"Oh,  Christ,  kid,  don't  say  anything  out  loud  like  that.  They'll  think 
you're  nuts,"  his  dad  says.  "Look,  just  get  back  up  there,  get  into  the 
stretch,  and  let's  get  you  out  of  this  inning,  okay?  I'll  explain  everything 
later." 

"Dad?"  he  says  again.  "What  the  hell?" 

But  the  voice,  the  hallucination  or  whatever  it  is,  is  right.  Best  to  just 
ignore  it  and  get  back  on  the  mound.  He  could  go  see  Doctor  Pat  tomorrow, 
get  a check-up,  see  if  it  is  some  sort  of  heat  thing.  Pat  is  a friend,  and  will 
be  honest  with  him.  Christ.  Voices.  Just  what  he  needs. 

Dan  goes  into  the  stretch,  takes  a look  at  the  runners  at  second  and 
first,  and  then  peers  in  for  the  sign  from  Johnny  O.  One  finger  stabs  down 
at  the  dirt.  Another  fastball  sinker. 

"Won't  work,"  his  dad's  voice  says.  "Shake  it  off,  son.  I'd  try  a slider, 
and  keep  it  away  from  him.  He'll  chase  it." 

Oh,  god.  Dan  backs  off  the  rubber,  stands  still  for  a moment,  tries  to 
clear  his  head.  He  wipes  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve,  the  sweat  pouring 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


61 


off  him,  puts  his  cap  back  on.  He  looks  in  to  see  John,  still  calling  for  that 
sinker.  Dan  says  no  to  that  with  a slight  shake  of  the  head. 

Johnny  tries  again,  two  fingers,  a curve.  Dan  shakes  that  off,  too. 

Johnny  stands,  calls  time,  and  trots  out  to  the  mound. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Dan  repeats.  "Jesus,  Johnny,  I'm  next  to  dead 
out  here  and  you're  calling  for  fastballs.  I just  don't  have  them  in  me." 

"You  want  to  bring  Ricky  in  from  right  to  pitch?  He  doesn't  have 
much,  but  he  can  get  it  over." 

Dan  waves  his  glove  at  Johnny.  "No,  no.  I'll  manage,  but  let's  try  the 
slider  on  this  guy.  I think  he  might  go  for  one  low  and  away.  All  right?" 

"Sure.  No  problem,"  Johnny  says,  and  clanks  back  down  to  the  plate, 
crouches  behind  it. 

Dan  goes  into  the  stretch,  takes  a look  at  the  two  runners,  and  comes 
in  with  the  slider.  It's  the  first  one  he's  thrown  in  a while,  and,  surpris- 
ingly, it  feels  good,  is,  in  fact,  damn  near  perfect,  starting  off  waist  high  and 
down  the  middle  and  then  breaking  away,  out  of  the  strike  zone  wide  and 
low. 

And  the  batter  goes  for  it,  starting  his  swing,  realizing  his  mistake  and 
trying  to  stop  it,  but  too  late.  Strike  two. 

"I'll  be  damned,"  Dan  says  aloud,  "it  worked.  Hell,  let's  go  for  it  one 
more  time,  okay?" 

"No,"  says  Dad's  voice.  "I  got  a better  idea.  This  kid'll  be  protecting 
the  plate  now.  With  two  strikes  on  him  he'll  be  looking  for  that  slider  or 
your  fastball.  Let's  try  the  straight  change." 

Dan  just  shakes  his  head.  Of  course,  the  change-up.  But  what  the  hell, 
at  least  it's  easy  to  throw.  He  steps  back  onto  the  mound,  shakes  off  the 
signs  from  John  until  he  gets  the  change,  and  lets  it  go.  The  kid  is  way  early 
on  it,  almost  falling  over  trying  to  stop  his  swing,  missing  badly.  Strike 
three.  One  out. 

His  dad's  voice  sounds  pleased.  "I  knew  it, " he  says,  as  the  ball  comes 
back  to  Dan. 

Dan  steps  back  down  off  the  mound,  tucks  his  glove  under  his  arm  and 
rubs  the  ball  for  a minute,  stalling  for  a little  rest  time  and  hoping  to  get 
through  whatever  it  is  that  brought  on  this  damn  voice. 

"It's  not  the  heat,  Danny.  Honest.  It's  me.  Man,  it's  good  to  be  here. 


62 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


good  to  talk  to  you.  Jimmy's  a great  kid,  but  it's  hard  to  hold  a real 
conversation  with  him,  you  know." 

And  damned  if  Dan  can't  almost  see  the  old  man  standing  there 
behind  the  mound  — that  battered  old  red  Cardinal  cap  perched  on  his 
head,  that  crooked  smile  that  rose  more  on  the  left  side  of  his  face,  that  pot- 
belly gut. 

No  one  else  seems  to  notice,  and  the  old  man  is  barely  there,  even  for 
Dan.  It  might  be,  Dan  thinks,  just  a worsening  of  the  heat  prostration  or 
something. 

Dan  looks  to  the  stands  to  see  if  the  guy  he  saw  before  is  still  there. 
The  guy  is  gone. 

The  apparition  shakes  its  head,  says,  "Face  it,  Danny.  It's  me,  and  you 
know  it.  Didn't  Jimmy  tell  you  about  this?  He  said  he  would.  Hell,  I think 
that  kid's  the  reason  I'm  back,  Danny.  He  told  me  you  guys  needed  me  out 
here.  So,  let's  get  this  next  guy,  all  right?" 

And  they  do,  on  four  pitches,  a fastball  inside,  two  sliders  low  and 
away,  and  another  change-up.  Strikeout.  There  is  an  actual  burst  of 
applause  from  the  stands,  some  encouraging  yells.  The  locals  aren't  used 
to  seeing  this  sort  of  thing,  but  they  sure  do  like  it. 

"You  know,"  says  his  dad,  firming  up  a little  with  each  pitch,  getting 
clearer  and  clearer  for  Dan,  "this  is  kind  of  fun,  Danny.  Maybe  this  is  why 
I came  back,  to  do  a little  coaching." 

"I  don't  think  so.  Dad.  I don't  think  you're  back  at  all.  But  if  you  are, 
it  isn't  to  tell  me  what  kind  of  pitch  to  throw." 

Fletch  comes  trotting  in  from  third  base,  concerned  perhaps  about  his 
pitcher  talking  to  himself.  "Jesus,  it's  hot, " he  says,  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  face.  "You  okay,  Dan?" 

Dan  just  smiles.  "Fine,  Fletch.  Just  fine.  Let's  end  this  thing,  okay?" 

And  three  pitches  later,  he  does,  following  Dad's  instructions  he  gets 
the  next  hitter  to  hit  a one-hopper  to  Fletch,  who  steps  on  the  bag  at  third 
to  end  the  game. 

Pirates  win,  4-3.  Amazing. 

Dan  walks  slowly  off  the  mound.  He  can  hardly  lift  his  arm  to  grasp 
Johnny  O.'s  hand  as  his  catcher  trots  out  to  congratulate  him,  but  it's  a 
win,  by  god.  For  the  Pirates. 

There  is  a little  knot  of  happ_^  players  who  walk  in  together  to  the 


STRAIGHT  CHANGES 


63 


bench.  None  of  them  seem  to  notice  the  wispy  image  of  his  Dad  still 
standing  out  on  the  mound,  looking  happily  in  toward  the  plate.  Dan, 
looking  back  once  or  twice,  doesn't  know  quite  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
Has  this  been  real  somehow?  Will  a cold  cup  of  water  make  it  all  fade  away? 

He  doesn't  know,  but  Frank  sure  looks  happy  out  there. 

Jimmy  runs  up  to  give  his  dad  a hug.  "You  a winner,  my  dad.  Nice  job. 
Great  pitching.  I be  very  proud  of  you." 

"Thanks,  Jimbo, " Dan  says,  and  concentrates  to  bring  his  arm  up,  put 
it  around  the  boy  as  they  walk  in  toward  the  bench  and  some  water.  "We 
finally  won  one,  didn't  we?" 

"And  Dad,"  says  Jimmy,  "I  not  tell  anyone  about  Grandpa,  right?  He 
told  me  to  keep  it  a secret,  except  to  tell  you." 

"What?" 

Jimmy  leans  over  to  speak  conspiratorially.  "Grandpa  says  we  keep 
this  all  a secret,  right?  Tell  no  one." 

Dan  just  smiles.  Right.  Tell  no  one. 

He  gives  the  boy  a hug.  "That's  right,  Jimmy.  It's  a secret,  it's  our  little 
secret,  okay?" 

"Okay,  my  dad.  It  is  a secret." 

Dan  sits  on  the  bench,  reaches  over  with  his  left  hand  to  push  in  the 
button  on  the  cooler  to  get  some  cold  water,  and  drinks  a cupful  down  in 
gulps. 

"You  won?" 

He  turns.  It's  Michelle,  smiling. 

"I  thought  I'd  stop  by  and  commiserate  after  your  weekly  loss,  maybe 
take  you  and  Jimmy  out  for  a bite  to  eat,"  she  says.  "And  now  I find  out 
that  you  won.  How  in  God's  name  did  that  happen?" 

She  looks  terrific.  She  looks  wonderful. 

Dan  stands,  laughing.  "Beats  me,"  he  says.  "But  eating  sounds  good, 
a little  victory  burger  maybe,  okay?" 

And  the  three  of  them  walk  over  to  Michelle's  Pathfinder,  climb  into 
it.  Dan  is  glad  that  she's  driving.  Maybe,  by  the  time  they've  eaten  and 
she's  brought  them  back  here  to  pick  up  his  car,  his  tired  old  arm  will  work 
well  enough  that  he'll  be  able  to  shift  gears  and  steer  with  it.  Maybe. 

She's  backing  out  of  her  space  when  Jimmy,  in  the  back,  rolls  down 
his  window  and  leans  out  to  wave  back  toward  the  diamond. 


64 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


"What's  he  doing?"  Michelle  asks. 

Dan  looks.  There's  nothing  out  there  that  he  can  see.  But  Jimmy,  he 
thinks,  is  the  one  who  sees  things  clearly. 

"It  is  nothing,  'Shelley,"  Jimmy  says.  "Just  nothing  at  all." 

And  then  he  leans  over  the  back  of  the  seat  and  whispers  into  his 
father's  ear,  "Grandpa  says  bye,  my  dad.  We-see  him  next  week.  We  win 
them  all  this  year,  he  says.  We  win  the  pennant." 

And  Michelle  looks  over  at  them  with  a quizzical  smile,  wondering 
what's  going  on. 

"Later,"  Dan  tells  her,  and  chuckles.  "I'll  try  and  explain  it  all  to  you 
later." 

"Explain  about  what?" 

Good  question.  "About  the  game.  About  winning.  About  Jimmy,"  he 
says.  And  then  he  looks  at  her.  She  seems  different  somehow  today.  He 
can't  quite  put  his  finger  on  it,  but  she's,  she's  ... 

He  gives  up,  smiles,  and  adds,  "And  mostly,  I guess,  about  straight 
changes." 


fUaUTLE-SS  felRPS 


Jacquelyn  Hooper  received  a masters  degree  from  Arizona  State  University  and 
now  lives  in  Cerritos,  California.  She  attended  the  Clarion  writers’  workshop  in 
1993  and  notes  that  this  story  grew  out  of  an  inquiry  into  the  different  ways  in 
which  fantasy  and  SF  view  the  future,  fust  as  many  stories  set  in  the  far  future 
occur  on  planets  named  for  ancient  gods,  she  thought,  so  too  do  we  all  individually 
need  to  understand  our  own  pasts  in  order  to  make  sense  of  the  future.  Witness 
Chris  Havenport’s  case. 


Home  on  the  Range 

By  Jacquelyn  Hooper 


IN  THE  SECOND  HOUR  OF 

waiting  in  the  rain  for  something  to 
happen,  Chris  Havenport  moved  his 
leg. 

"Be  still,"  Paladin  said. 

Chris  stared  at  him.  Water  dripped  from  Paladin's  wide-brimmed  hat, 
and  ran  down  his  arms.  His  hands  were  clasped  around  the  trigger  of  the 
rocket  net,  ready  to  fire. 

He  stared  straight  ahead,  through  a break  in  the  trees,  at  the  clearing. 
"I  have  to  take  a piss,"  Chris  said. 

"Hold  it." 

"Nothin's  out  there." 

Paladin  remained  rigid.  Chris  carefully  returned  his  leg  to  its  previous 
position,  cursing  Paladin  in  his  head.  Waiting  was  not  the  worst  part  of 
extermination,  but  it  was  a close  second.  Paladin  blackened  his  eye  once 
for  coughing  in  a still  glen,  but  even  then  Chris  did  not  see  the  point.  They 
weren't  after  quail  or  hare. 


66 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


There  was  no  name  yet  for  what  they  were  after.  Paladin  called  them 
hellion  and  butchers,-  Chris  had  liked  the  sound  of  natives.  Either  way, 
who  knew  if  they  could  see  them  hiding  in  the  bushes? 

Paladin  moved  his  head,  alerting  Chris  to  something  to  his  right. 
Chris  saw  nothing  but  leaves,  and  the  blinking  red  light  of  the  atmostat 
in  the  clearing. 

But  he  felt  a shift  in  the  weather.  Thunder  drummed  above  him,  and 
the  air,  once  filled  with  the  sharp  smell  of  leaves  and  his  own  musty 
wetness,  was  a river,  flooding  his  nose  and  ears.  He  suppressed  the  urge  to 
cough,  because  Paladin  was  not  moving.  He  stood,  seemingly  rooted,  his 
dark  eyes  piercing  through  the  curtain  of  water  before  them. 

In  the  clearing,  a woman  appeared.  She  was  naked,  her  skin  the  color 
of  teak.  She  spun  around,  a blissful  expression  on  her  wide  face  as  the 
storm  swirled  with  her.  She  slowed,  and  the  rain  seemed  to  slow. 

Chris  watched  her  dance,  following  the  way  her  black  hair  roped  and 
swung  across  her  face  and  shoulders. 

He  did  not  know  what  possessed  him,  at  that  moment,  to  rise,  to  see 
better. 

She  reminded  him  of  Rae,  their  custodian.  They  shared  the  same 
coffee  shading,  the  same  dark  hair.  He  thought  of  Rae's  smile  as  the 
woman  halted  her  dance,  her  arms  stretched  to  the  sky,  her  body  poised 
to  leap  across  the  clearing. 

Her  sudden  stop  startled  Chris  from  his  dreams.  The  woman  turned 
her  head,  her  ears  pricked  like  a fox's.  Her  gold  eyes  found  him  in  the 
clearing. 

Her  actions  reminded  Chris  of  a deer's.  For  all  intents  and  purposes, 
she  was  one.  What  he  thought  was  skin  was  fur.  Her  half  raised  leg  tapered 
down  to  a hoof. 

Chris  wanted  to  turn  from  her  wondering,  almost  inviting  expression. 
He  felt  his  heart  slow. 

A sigh  behind  him  made  him  jump.  Not  until  the  woman  turned  her 
head  did  he  realize  Paladin  had  fired  the  net  rocket. 

"The  stakes,"  Paladin  said,  rushing  through  the  brush.  The  net  had 
dropped  on  the  woman,  knocking  her  to  the  ground.  Chris  opened  the  tool 
box  a few  centimeters  away.  The  iron  stakes  sat  in  their  own  tray,  slick  and 
rusty  from  the  rain.  He  took  them  and  a mallet,  and  ran  into  the  clearing. 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


67 


Paladin  was  sitting  on  the  native.  She  appeared  stunned,  until  she  saw 
Chris.  She  tried  to  tear  at  the  mesh  netting  with  her  hands.  She  hit  and 
shoved  at  Paladin.  Paladin  punched  her  in  the  face. 

"Switch,"  Paladin  said,  when  Chris  stopped  next  to  him.  "Now!" 

He  jumped,  and  Chris  took  his  place.  The  woman  struggled  anew,  and 
Chris  held  her  arms  down. 

Paladin  stepped  on  one  of  her  outstretched  wrists,  and  knelt  down.  He 
took  one  of  the  stakes,  and  with  one  swing  hammered  it  through  her  hand, 
into  the  mud. 

"Nye!"  she  screamed.  Chris  grabbed  her  other  arm,  and  felt  her  kick 
and  buck  beneath  him  as  Paladin  circled  around  them.  Chris  worked  by 
feel,  by  practice  in  pressing  her  down,  keeping  her  still.  He  could  not  look 
at  her  face,  not  with  the  human  ones.  He  wished  he  could  shut  out  their 
noises  as  well. 

"Josen,  dis  maen,"  she  said,  her  voice  a harsh  whisper.  "Etnis  dole 
capo  ...  nye!" 

"Last  one,"  Paladin  said.  "Move." 

"Help  me." 

Chris  opened  his  eyes.  Tears  and  rain  streaked  her  face. 

"Christopher,  please." 

"Move!  Move!"  Paladin  shoved  him  aside.  Chris  lay  on  his  side, 
stunned.  Natives  didn't  speak  anything  anyone  could  understand.  It  was 
always  gibberish,  the  sound  of  birds,  cats,  and  shrieking  metal  singing 
together. 

Never  soft  toned  American.  Never  names. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  "Please." 

Paladin  brought  down  the  mallet  on  the  final  stake,  over  her  heart. 
Her  body  twitched,  then  stilled. 

"Call  it  in."  He  tossed  the  mallet  in  the  grass  in  front  of  Chris.  "Tell 
Rae  it's  red  light." 

"She  — " 

"It's  dead."  He  wiped  his  hands  on  his  jacket,  turning  the  wet  leather 
a richer  brown. 

Chris  stood  up,  and  walked  toward  the  equipment.  He  hated  this.  He 
always  had,  always  would. 

As  he  called  Rae,  the  sky  darkened,  and  the  rain  turned  to  hail. 


68 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"Put  it  away  careful,"  Paladin  said,  a half  hour  later.  "It's  mine,  not 
New  River's." 

Chris  rolled  the  net  and  slipped  it  into  the  mouth  of  the  launcher. 
"Sorry." 

Paladin  removed  his  hat,  shook  water  from  the  brim,  and  put  it  back 
on.  "What's  passin'  your  back?" 

"She  said  my  name."  He  removed  the  legs  from  the  launcher. 

"So  what?  You  know  how  many  people  on  this  planet  named  Chris? 
Light  a rocket  and  everyone's  looking  for  the  Second  Coming."  He 
approached  Chris,  and  took  the  launcher  legs  from  his  hands.  "I  gave  you 
rules.  Follow  'em  before  I put  you  with  them  other  idiots  in  Exterminator's 
Row ." 

He  glared  at  Paladin's  back.  Exterminator's  Row  was  a monument 
created  by  the  New  River  Expedition  Company  dedicated  to  the  extermi- 
nators who  died  on  Cynafaka  since  its  colonization.  Paladin  had  taken 
Chris  there  after  buying  him  from  the  New  Bethlehem  orphanage.  He 
wanted  Chris  to  see  his  predecessors,  all  orphans  sold  to  trade,  all  killed 
in  the  field  less  than  two  years  after  Paladin  purchased  them. 

Chris  wondered  if  they  were  the  lucky  ones.  He  had  been  stuck  with 
Paladin's  cold,  brooding  abuse  for  six  years. 

He  would  still  be  stuck,  unless  the  Air  Corps  nabbed  him.  God,  how 
he  wanted  to  be  a pilot.  To  fly  across  the  river,  to  fly  through  space  and 
time. 

To  fly  the  hell  away  from  his  current  life. 

He  walked  away  from  the  clearing  and  toward  their  gear  as  Paladin 
prepared  to  turn  the  native  to  ash,  negating  its  very  existence.  He  did  not 
care  what  Paladin  said.  Killing  this  one  was  not  like  killing  the  hare  and 
antelope  hybrids,  or  the  things  with  lion's  paws  and  eagle's  wings.  She 
called  his  name.  Looking  in  her  eyes,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  under  a spotlight. 
She  wanted  him  to  perform. 

And  he  failed.  Whatever  she  expected,  he  did  not  do.  He  could  not 
shake  the  feeling  he  was  wrong  in  not  taking  any  sort  of  action. 

Rae  arrived  as  Chris  sat  near  the  gear,  blowing  on  his  hands  to  warm 
them.  The  New  River  Expedition  Company  was  a maverick  operation. 
When  Cynataka  had  been  discovered.  New  River  capitalized  on  the 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


69 


chance  to  offer  homestead  packages,  trouble  free  attempts  at  life  on  a real 
new  frontier.  They  had  moved  in  quickly  on  the  Army's  tail,  using 
atmospheric  sensors  — Rae  nicknamed  them  atmostats  — to  secure  and 
define  their  claim  even  as  the  military  destroyed  the  indigenous  plant  and 
animal  life. 

He  and  Paladin  kept  the  territory  clear,  killing  anything  the  army 
missed.  Rae  was  their  custodian;  she  cleaned  up  what  the  natives  de- 
stroyed before  the  homesteaders  arrived. 

She  also  carried  supplies  and  extra  gear,  even  though  Paladin  never  let 
him  use  most  of  it.  Guns,  rifles,  knives  and  arrows  did  the  job.  Paladin 
said.  The  rest  just  got  New  River  good  copy. 

Rae  parked  her  bike  alongside  the  extermination  supplies,  blowing 
hot  air  and  slush  around  as  the  motors  shut  down.  She  was  six  feet  tall, 
dressed  in  orange  overalls  and  wet  from  speeding  through  the  rain.  She 
grabbed  a coat  from  her  bike  and  tossed  it  to  Chris. 

"What's  the  kill?"  she  asked. 

"A  woman.  With  fur."  He  stood  up,  and  put  on  the  jacket.  It  was  her 
favorite,  the  black  one  with  her  old  army  squadron  nickname,  Anansi,  and 
a spider  on  the  back.  "And  hooves." 

"Still  there?" 

Chris  nodded.  Rae  opened  a compartment  on  the  bike,  and  pulled  out 
a camera.  She  ran  through  the  brush,  sidestepping  branches  so  quickly  she 
made  little  noise.  Chris  followed,  even  as  he  heard  the  whine  of  Paladin's 
laser  eradicator  in  action.  His  nose,  tender  from  the  rain,  twitched  at  the 
scent  of  burning  flesh  and  fur. 

Rae  moved  through  the  trees,  stomping  through  the  mud.  "He  did  it 
again!" 

"He  likes  to  get  done." 

"Forget  done.  He  knew  I wanted  a picture." 

"What  for?" 

"You  never  wondered  what  happens  to  the  gods  when  they  die?" 

"They  ain't  gods."  He  tightened  the  coat  around  him  "Anyway,  who 
gives  a damn?  Picture's  not  gonna  bring  'em  back." 

She  lifted  a strand  of  her  hair  from  her  face.  "What's  wrong  with 
you?" 

"Paladin."  He  kicked  at  the  ground.  "I'm  sorry." 


70 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"So  make  it  up  to  me."  She  brushed  her  camera  free  of  water  with  her 
fingers.  "How's  your  memory?" 

"Too  good." 

"I  want  an  image.  Talk  me  through  a drawing  on  the  radio  later, 
okay?" 

"Rae! " It  was  Paladin.  "Fix  this  box  so  we  can  get  the  hell  out  of  here. " 

She  looked  at  Chris.  He  smiled,  and  leaned  against  the  nearest  tree. 
He  and  Rae  were  raised  in  the  same  orphanage  in  New  Bethlehem,  seven 
hundred  kilometers  east  and  six  years  away  from  the  wilds  of  the  New 
River  Territory. 

Before  Paladin  had  bought  Chris,  then  sixteen,  from  New  Bethlehem, 
Rae  was  his  girl.  Running  into  her  on  this  assignment,  it  had  almost  been 
as  if  they'd  never  been  parted. 

Or  it  would  be,  if  they  were  ever  allowed  more  than  five  seconds 
together.  Stares  and  a few  words  were  all  Paladin  would  allow  them. 

"Rae!"  Paladin  yelled. 

"Kleenex,"  she  said,  and  turned  around. 

"What?"  Chris  asked. 

"In  the  top  pocket."  Rae  stomped  toward  the  cycles.  "Your  nose  is 
running." 

"Circuit  board  malfunction,"  Rae  said  an  hour  later.  She  tightened 
the  lid  of  the  atmostat.  "Like  they  had  back  at  W Station.  Native  comes 
in,  sticks  a magnet  under  the  box.  Erases  the  program,  shuts  the  shields 
down."  She  picked  up  her  radio.  "Sayles  at  x-ray  station,  code  zero  two 
zero  two  charlie.  Activate." 

The  red  light  turned  green.  Moments  later,  the  clearing  was  filled 
with  the  sound  of  crickets  and  cicadas.  New  River's  way  of  verifying  that 
the  equipment  was  on,  while  maintaining  an  Earthlike  feel. 

Or  it  would  be,  Chris  thought.  If  Cynataka  had  crickets  and  cicadas. 

Paladin  looked  up  from  where  he  had  set  down  their  weapons  for 
maintenance.  "It  didn't  have  a magnet." 

"Maybe  she  was  the  magnet. " The  weapons  sat  in  a row  on  a tarp.  Rae 
walked  over  to  them,  and  began  examining  the  rifle.  "Maybe  she  was  one 
of  those  things  Ev's  always  nagging  about  on  the  radio,  those  things  that 
killed  Harris  and  Teagarden  — " 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


71 


"Gremlins." 

"Yeah."  She  raised  the  rifle,  aimed  it  at  a tree  heavy  with  apples,  and 
fired.  Three  apples  exploded,  raining  pulp  sized  pieces  to  the  ground.  "But 
Havenport  says  this  was  a woman  with  fur." 

"It  don't  matter  what  it  was.  It's  dead."  Paladin  took  his  rifle,  and 
handed  her  a shotgun. 

"It  could've  been  Melinda  Cordisian,"  Rae  said.  She  began  to  strip  the 
gun.  "Settlers  reported  her  missing  two  days  ago.  Ev  thinks  she  got 
Convert's  Disease." 

Chris  had  heard  of  Melinda  Cordisian.  She  had  been  a scientist  on  the 
first  strike  team  that  landed  on  Cynataka.  Paladin  had  known  her  from  his 
army  days  on  Earth.  She  was  matter  of  fact,  he'd  said.  A woman  who  knew 
her  place  in  the  world,  not  like  most  of  them  nowadays. 

He  wondered  how  she  could  have  come  down  with  Convert's  Disease. 
It  was  said  to  hit  colonists,  mostly.  People  who  went  beyond  the  protec- 
tion of  New  River  into  the  uncontrolled  regions  of  the  planet.  They 
breathed  the  unpurified  air,  tasted  the  untreated  water,  ate  food  they  had 
grown  in  the  alien  soil.  Not  soon  after,  they  became  natives. 

Melinda  Cordisian  had  been  among  the  first  to  discover  the  disease, 
and  the  natives,  when  the  planet  was  first  maintained  by  the  military,  so 
she  was  not  stupid.  But,  like  the  others  with  Convert's,  she  made 
exterminating  all  the  harder.  Things  were  bad  enough  without  having  to 
hunt  your  own  kind  as  well  as  the  enemy. 

"You've  been  personalizing  the  weaponry  again,"  Rae  said,  staring  at 
the  pieces  of  the  shotgun.  She  picked  up  the  barrel,  looked  through  it. 
"What  the  hell  is  in  here?" 

Paladin  snatched  it  from  her  hands.  "Clean  the  rest." 

"That's  New  River  equipment."  She  snapped  a picture  of  it  with  her 
camera.  "You've  just  bought  that  antique.  Comes  out  of  your  pay." 

"Fine."  He  gave  her  another  barrel.  "And  prime  it  right,  this  time. 
Damn  near  tore  my  shoulder  out  in  the  recoil." 

"Serves  you  right  for  using  this  old  crap." 

"But  it  don't  hurt  your  aim  any,  does  it?" 

Paladin  stared  at  her,  his  eyes  narrowed  to  thin  slits.  Rae  returned  the 
stare.  Her  mouth  was  twisted  into  something  not  quite  a smile,  not  quite 
a leer. 


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FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"I'm  tired  of  your  smart  mouth."  Paladin  cradled  his  altered  barrel 
tmder  his  arm,  then  walked  through  the  trees.  "I'm  calling  Ev." 

"Like  hell  you  are." 

When  he  was  sure  Paladin  had  gone,  Chris  walked  over  to  Rae.  She 
was  putting  the  shotgun  back  together  with  the  new  barrel.  He  watched 
her,  standing  as  close  to  her  as  he  could  without  getting  in  her  way.  She 
had  a weirdly  intoxicating  smell,  a combination  of  musk,  electricity  and 
gun  oil. 

She  finished  the  gun,  and  turned  toward  him.  "You  know  better." 

"Do  I? " He  took  the  shotgun,  and  laid  it  against  her  workstand.  He  put 
his  hands  on  her  hips. 

"He'll  be  right  back.  Ev  lets  him  squeal,  then  reminds  him  of  my 
service  record. " She  moved  close  to  him,  blowing  lightly  in  his  ear.  "That 
man  hates  that  I know  what  I'm  doing." 

"You  got  a long  record.  That'll  count  for  some  time." 

They  kissed.  Chris  had  always  managed  to  move  their  relationship 
along,  stealing  the  seconds  they  had  together  and  making  them  count.  It 
was  painstaking  work  that  required  all  his  concentration  to  set  up. 
Sleeping  with  Rae  would  not  mean  ending  weeks  of  frustration  on  the 
New  River  Territory  job. 

It  would  be  the  end  of  years  of  frustration.  Paladin  had  bought  him  as 
a virgin.  To  do  the  job  right,  he'd  said,  he  had  to  stay  that  way.  Natives  ate 
up  purity  like  you  wouldn't  believe. 

The  sound  of  crickets  in  the  clearing  became  dead  silence. 

Chris  and  Rae  parted  from  their  embrace.  Paladin  was  standing 
calmly  next  to  the  control  box,  drinking  from  a flask  in  one  hand,  and 
rubbing  a chunk  of  magnetized  metal  over  the  atmostat  with  another. 

Chris  sighed.  "I'm  sorry.  Next  stop?" 

"Maybe."  She  picked  up  the  shotgun,  aimed,  and  fired  it  above 
Paladin's  head.  Shot  broke  tree  branches,  bringing  a rain  of  water  and 
leaves  down  on  Paladin  and  the  control  box. 

"Are  you  out  of  your  mind?"  Paladin  asked.  He  brushed  himself  free 
of  rain  and  twigs. 

"You're  an  asshole,"  she  said,  giving  the  shotgun  to  Chris.  Then  she 
left  the  clearing. 

"The  hellion  want  women,"  Paladin  said.  He  put  the  flask  in  his 
pocket,  lifted  the  shotgun.  He  aimed  it  at  Chris,  before  aiming  it  toward 


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73 


the  trees.  "Tune  to  their  emotions.  Don't  matter  how  much  sniper  and 
covert  duty  they  pull." 


HREE  DAYS  LATER,  Chris  lay  hidden  in  a field 
of  grain,  dressed  in  gold  and  bone-colored  fatigues.  His 
skin  itched  from  the  grasses  and  mites  that  had  gotten 
into  his  clothing.  The  air  was  hot  and  dry.  He  thought  he 


would  choke  from  the  overpowering  stench  of  wheat,  and  the  chemically 
treated  manure  that  kept  it  growing. 

Paladin  was  a few  meters  away,  or  a few  millimeters  away.  Chris 
didn't  know.  He  had  not  heard  him  on  his  earplug  in  over  an  hour. 

I'm  moving,  he  thought,  but  remained  still. 

His  chest  itched  the  most.  He  thought  about  the  scar  there,  from  the 
heart  surgeries  he  had  as  a child  to  repair  defective  valves.  He  used  to  wish 
he  could  scratch  it  away;  the  Air  Corps  would  not  accept  anyone  with 
heart  defects.  Without  the  scar,  he  could  havebeen  signed  up,  like  Rae,  out 
in  space,  out  anywhere  but  here. 

He  was  meant  to  fly.  He  knew  it  every  time  he  woke  in  the  morning, 
staring  at  the  new  sky. 

And  reminded  himself  of  it,  when  he  woke  from  nightmares  where 
the  sky  was  Paladin's  face,  and  he  stood  over  him,  an  atmostat-shaped 
stake  and  mallet  in  hand. 

Son  of  a bitch,  he  thought,  closing  his  eyes.  He  remembered  the  man's 
first  reaction  to  Rae.  Ev  the  dispatcher  had  finally  given  them  a dream 
partnership.  She  was  never  late,  always  ready  with  the  right  equipment  for 
the  next  stretch  of  the  job.  New  River  hired  her  the  moment  she  was 
honorably  discharged,  and  paid  her  as  much  as  they  paid  Paladin,  whose 
price  was  sky. 

She  did  know  her  job.  She  knew  Paladin's  job.  No  matter  what  weapon 
she  held,  she  never  missed  what  she  aimed  at.  She  told  him  once  how  she 
planned  to  settle  in  the  Aurora  Borealis  Territory,  across  New  River's 
river,  when  the  territory  was  cleared.  She  wanted  to  work  there  as  ranger. 

So  if  she  knew  her  job,  maybe  he  didn't  hate  her,  Chris  thought. 
Maybe  he  wanted  her.  He  had  never  seen  Paladin  with  a woman,  though 
women  approached  him.  They  would  whither  away  under  his  stare,  like 
roses  in  the  cross  beam  of  a laser  eradicator. 

Rae  did  not  whither.  And  Chris  knew  that  Paladin  was  technically  a 


74 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


widower.  He  had  been  a farmer  on  another  Cynataka  colony  before  natives 
massacred  his  family  and  carried  off  his  wife,  or  she  ran  off,  one  or  the 
other. 

If  he  had  married  before,  then  he  had  liked  women  once.  Who  was  to 
say  he  could  not  do  it  again? 

Me,  Chris  thought.  He  touches  her.  I'll  kill  him. 

"Comer  of  the  sky,  southwest,"  Paladin  said.  His  voice  was  supposed 
to  be  a whisper,  but  it  was  a sonic  boom  in  Chris's  ear. 

Chris  adjusted  the  microphone  bar  under  his  chin  so  it  was  below  his 
mouth.  "What  is  it?" 

"Coming  in,  three  and  three.  Ready  the  rifle,  stay  low." 

Chris  glanced  up  at  the  light  blue  sky.  The  sun  was  alone:  no  clouds, 
no  satellites,  no  ships.  Virgin  blue,  the  pilots  called  it.  Like  the  surface  of 
the  ocean,  there  was  nothing  to  see. 

But  the  wind  changed.  Hot  dust  and  grain  shafts  blew  into  Chris's 
face.  He  could  hear  the  sound  of  shrieks.  Metal  twisting  in  the  wind,  the 
coming  of  a tornado,  or  dust  storm. 

These  shrieks  were  harmonious,  and  coming  from  the  direction 
Paladin  had  noted  before,  comer  of  the  sky,  southwest. 

The  natives  had  wings.  Their  bodies  were  covered  with  fine  feathers, 
instead  of  hair.  Tear-shaped  eyes,  dull  and  flat  like  pressed  gold,  scanned 
the  grain  for  movement.  Reddish-blond  hair  was  atop  their  heads.  Their 
faces  were  dreamily  beautiful,  almost  lethargic  in  expression  and  move- 
ment. 

They  landed  in  the  field,  five  in  all,  squatting  before  standing  semi- 
erect.  Two  stood  next  to  the  damaged  atmostat  post.  Hands  with  sharp 
talons  picked  at  the  twisted  wires. 

One  chirped  to  the  other  four.  Two  removed  jagged  strips  of  sheet 
metal  from  their  backs.  The  other  two  removed  large  shoulder  sacks.  They 
began  to  harvest  the  grain. 

Chris  noted  the  metal,  the  sacks.  They  were  cheap  materials,  the  type 
used  by  homesteaders  who  did  not  know  any  better.  The  natives  were 
hacking  at  the  grain,  chopping  stalks  and  shafts.  They  had  no  idea  what 
they  were  doing,  either. 

They  just  know  we  eat  it,  Chris  thought.  He  wondered  how  they'd 
gotten  the  materials.  Stolen,  after  some  observation,  most  likely.  Some- 


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75 


one  was  going  to  have  to  pay  the  New  River  T erritory  Emporium  too  much 
money  to  get  them  replaced. 

Except,  as  he  watched,  the  natives  got  better.  The  experimental 
swings  were  building  a rhythm.  The  shrieks  were  replaced  with  pure 
notes,  singing  along  with  the  tempo  of  the  cuts. 

"Now,"  Paladin  said. 

Chris  took  the  rifle  in  his  hands,  marked  a target  with  the  sight,  put 
his  finger  on  the  trigger.  He  had  used  the  rifle  only  when  helping  Rae  test 
it  after  it  had  been  cleaned.  He  had  not  liked  the  feel  of  it  then.  He  hated 
the  feel  of  it  now. 

It  was  not  that  he  hated  guns.  He  had  bought  himself  a Portland 
Pocket  Laser  .64  with  his  first  paycheck.  Laser  fire  was  quick,  effortless. 
You  did  not  have  to  think  to  use  it. 

The  rifle  required  thought.  Chris  had  worked  with  Paladin  long 
enough  to  know  what  happened  when  you  thought  wrong.  A native  would 
be  wounded,  but  it  would  not  be  dead.  Once  it  healed,  it  would  come  back 
stronger,  wiser. 

Emphasis  on  wiser.  The  longer  the  attack,  the  quicker  they  learned, 
the  more  they  knew  about  you,  about  New  River.  About  everything. 

Paladin's  shotgun  brought  the  sound  of  thunder  to  the  field.  Part  of  a 
native's'  wing  was  tom  clean  away. 

"Now!"  Paladin  said. 

Chris  pulled  the  trigger.  The  rifle  had  been  aimed  at  the  smallest  of 
the  natives.  It  turned  its  head  as  the  bullet  left  the  chamber.  He  watched 
the  native's  reaction  as  the  bullet  flew  past  its  head. 

It  put  a hand  to  its  ear,  and  screamed.  It  turned  in  Chris's  direction, 
its  flat  eyes  searching. 

The  one  with  the  torn  wing  pulled  the  small  one  down  into  the  field. 
The  rest  flew  into  the  air,  shedding  feathers  in  their  wake. 

Paladin  fired  at  the  flock.  He  killed  one  with  his  first  shot,  the  bullet 
going  through  its  chest.  It  fell  to  the  ground,  disappearing  in  the  sea  of 
grain.  He  grazed  another  in  the  leg.  It  continued  to  fly. 

"Chris,"  Paladin  said,  hissing  into  the  earplug. 

He  raised  the  rifle,  aimed.  The  sound  of  shifting  grass  made  him 
pause.  He  lowered  the  rifle,  and  listened. 

"Kill  it." 


76 


FANTASY  Sl  SCIENCE  FICTION 


"The  other  two,"  Chris  asked.  "Where  are  they?" 

"Get  the  straggler!" 

Chris  did.  He  shot  it  clean  in  the  chest.  It  lingered  in  the  air,  casting 
a tortured  shadow  across  the  grain  field.  It  beat  its  wings  once,  then 
tumbled  from  the  sky. 

Chris  stood  when  it  hit  the  ground.  There  had  always  been  a cold,  hard 
feeling  in  his  gut  when  he  wounded  natives.  Everything  for  him  went 
numb,  and  bitter  in  his  mouth.  He  had  never  actually  killed  one,  not  the 
way  Paladin  did,  though  he  tried. 

A maddening  desire  overcame  him  to  save  it.  Score  the  wound.  Heal  it. 

A pair  of  gold  eyes  appeared  from  the  grain  in  the  midst  of  Chris's 
view.  The  smaller  native  was  staring  at  him.  It  still  held  its  hand  to  its  ear, 
but  now  it  was  calm,  its  perfect  mouth  open  in  a small  "o." 

Chris  heard  the  wind,  the  sound  of  flapping  wings  above  him.  The 
remaining  natives  were  circling  the  field,  watching  like  vultures. 

Sweat  ran  down  his  neck  and  back.  Something  bit  him.  Another  itch 
he  could  not  scratch. 

The  native  took  its  hand  from  its  head.  Blood  stained  the  white 
feathers  on  its  hand.  It  chirped  once,  a question. 

Get  down,  he  told  himself.  It  was  a trap.  He  did  not  see  the  other  one, 
could  not  hear  it.  It  was  dead.  Maybe. 

"Stay  put,"  Paladin  said. 

"The  other  one  will  get  me!" 

Paladin  did  not  reply.  The  native  beat  its  wings,  stirring  the  grain 
around  it.  It  touched  its  hand  to  its  head,  then  held  it  out  for  Chris  to  see 
again. 

What  do  you  want  me  to  do  about  it?  he  thought,  his  hands  clenched 
tightly  on  the  rifle. 

There  was  movement  in  the  grass  to  his  right.  Chris  stepped  back, 
watching  the  grain  bend  as  something  pushed  it,  ripped  it  from  the  ground. 
It  moved  toward  Chris  on  a wave  as  loud  as  a real  one. 

The  other  native  chirped. 

There  was  still  no  answer  from  Paladin. 

Chris  raised  the  rifle,  aimed,  fired  at  the  movement  in  the  grass.  The 
native  quickened  its  speed,  barreling  toward  Chris,  its  one  wing  making 
a break  through  the  grain  like  a "v." 


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77 


Then  it  swerved,  hard  right.dt  leaped  from  the  grain,  shrieking. 

It  leaped  at  Paladin.  Chris  saw  his  shotgun  barrel  go  up  and  fire  before 
the  native  landed  on  him. 

A squeal  erupted  in  Chris's  ear,  followed  by  the  shouts  of  Paladin 
outside  of  the  headpiece.  Chris  ran  to  his  aid,  aware  all  the  while  that  the 
smaller  native  could  come  up  behind  him  and  finish  him  off.  He  used  his 
peripheral  vision  to  check  it.  It  had  not  moved. 

The  native  with  one  wing  had  Paladin  pinned.  Paladin  held  its  wrists, 
to  keep  it  from  tearing  out  his  eyes.  It  had  already  gouged  his  face,  and 
slashed  the  side  of  his  neck. 

Chris  grabbed  it  from  behind.  Blood  and  feathers  smeared  his  face  and 
clothes  as  he  pulled  the  creature  from  Paladin.  It  beat  its  one  wing, 
knocking  Chris  in  the  head.  Chris  felt  his  grasp  on  the  creature  loosen. 

"Run!"  it  said.  "I  will  protect  you." 

Chris's  mind  raced.  The  thing  had  chirped.  But  he  understood  it  now. 

"Come  on,"  Paladin  said.  His  hat  had  been  knocked  off  his  head.  Black 
and  gray  hair  flew  wild  as  the  wind  picked  up.  He  wobbled  as  he  rose  on 
his  knees,  then  motioned  at  the  native.  "Finish  me  off!" 

The  native  glanced  back  at  Chris.  The  look  it  gave  him  was  almost 
tender  and  absolving  in  its  intensity.  "Go.  You  are  Free." 

It  turned  back  to  Paladin,  just  as  Paladin,  now  standing,  removed  a 
knife  from  his  belt.  The  native  did  not  have  a chance.  Chris  saw  it  stiffen 
when  the  blade  pierced  its  chest.  All  Chris  could  see  of  it  after  it  fell  into 
the  grain  was  the  tip  of  its  remaining  wing. 

"I'll  call  it  in,"  Paladin  said.  He  bent  down,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  put 
it  on.  "Get  the  other  one." 

"But..."  Chris  saw  Paladin  stalk  through  the  grain,  toward  the  top  of 
the  rise  where  their  gear  was  stowed. 

He  was  alone.  For  the  first  time.  Paladin  had  left  him  alone  with  their 
prey. 

Chris  turned  toward  the  small  native.  It  was  being  scooped  from  the 
field  by  a pair  of  the  others  that  had  been  hovering  above  them  moments 
before.  They  were  moving  slowly  across  the  horizon,  heading  toward  the 
river  that  was  the  border  between  the  New  River  Territory  and  the  Aurora 
Borealis  Territory. 

An  easy  shot.  So  blessedly  simple. 


78 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


But  the  rifle  jammed  when  he  aimed  and  prepared  to  fire.  And  as  he 
fixed  the  problem,  the  natives  were  out  of  range,  white  specks  on  the 
horizon  that  dipped  below  the  tree  line,  returning  the  sky  to  virgin 
blue. 

Numbness  washed  over  Chris  like  a salve.  But  he  could  feel,  in  his 
mind,  a storm  of  confusion  growing.  Something  ravenous,  an  instinct  that 
had  threatened  to  burst  out  before  he  made  his  fate. 

Is  that  what  I did?  he  thought,  turning  back  to  Paladin.  He  was  a 
silhouette  against  their  gear,  a tall,  gaunt  scarecrow  kneeling  down  before 
the  radio,  barking  commands  into  it  that  the  wind  carried  freely  south,  for 
anyone  to  hear. 

And,  as  Chris  approached  him,  watching  the  sun  change  the  lines  of 
blood  and  age  on  Paladin's  face  into  fissures  and  cracks,  his  superior 
seemed  less  an  injured  man,  more  a cornered  animal. 

"You  can  ask  me  if  I care.  Go  ahead.  Ask  me." 

"Do  you  care?"  Chris  asked. 

Paladin  took  a drink  from  his  flask.  He  looked  across  the  campfire, 
back  at  Rae,  who  was  talking  to  Ev  about  a new  circuit  board  for  the 
damaged  atmostat. 

He  stared  Chris  in  the  eye.  Firelight  turned  the  bandages  on  his  face 
orange-white. 

"No.  Buy  up  your  contract,  if  you  got  the  money." 

Chris  looked  down  at  his  hands.  It  was  a hot,  humid  night.  Rae  had 
helped  them  move  near  the  river.  They  were  camped  in  a grotto  for  the 
night.  They  were  too  close  to  the  wilderness  to  go  all  the  way  back  to  the 
main  office  for  supplies  and  medicaid.  Turning  around  now  would  have 
run  them  all  into  a wave  of  homesteaders. 

They  would  have  had  questions.  What  were  they  doing  on  untouched 
soil?  What  had  caused  them  so  many  injuries? 

It  was  thoughts  of  the  homesteaders,  and  what  he  had  accomplished 
that  day,  which  caused  Chris  to  consider  his  future.  Paladin  owned  him 
for  six  years  service,  unless  he  had  the  money,  with  interest,  to  buy  his 
own  freedom. 

He  almost  had  the  money.  But  he  had  an  application  for  the  Air  Corps. 
He  could  get  in  just  in  time  for  training  on  the  jump  runs,  commuter 


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flights  between  the  New  River  Territory  and  the  Aurora  Borealis,  when  it 
was  completed. 

But  nothing  would  happen,  nothing  could  happen,  until  he  had  Rae. 
A sneaked  glance  at  her  across  the  fire  told  him  she  felt  the  same  in  regard 
to  her  future  as  a ranger. 

And  Paladin,  unlike  a few  days  before,  seemed  more  resigned  about 
the  possibility.  But  then,  he  was  almost  amiable  about  everything  when 
he  was  drunk. 

"Bought  you  at  discount,  half  price.  Defective."  Paladin  took  another 
swig  from  his  flask.  His  fist  knocked  his  hat  back  as  he  took  a long,  high 
drink.  "Figured  save  myself  the  money.  Wouldn't  survive  the  first  year." 

"Sorry  to  disappoint  you." 

He  gave  a mock  bow.  "Sorry  to  disappoint  you.  You  want  me  dead,  do 
it  yourself." 

"I  don't  want  you  dead." 

"You  want  me  dead.  If  you  didn't,  I would've  killed  you  by  now." 

He  grinned  at  Chris  when  he  said  it,  the  sort  of  nasty  grin  you 
expected  from  someone  completely  drunk.  But  Paladin  never  looked 
drunk  when  he  was.  He  always  looked  sober. 

And  Chris,  long  accustomed  to  Paladin's  scant  description  of  the 
buying  of  his  life,  found  that  the  anger  he  had  always  choked  down  had  not 
risen  inside  of  him. 

And  it  scared  him.  The  numbness  again,  the  feeling  that  things  were 
going  worse  where  they  had  once  just  gone  wrong. 

That  a battle  he  had  lost  was  not  quite  over  yet. 

"Ev  says  stay  tight,"  Rae  said.  "Also  got  a red  light  near  the  river 
bend." 

"What's  the  status?"  Paladin  asked. 

"Fog  conditions.  Breech  in  perimeter  fencing.  Satellite  shot  showed 
it  was  cut." 

"Could  be  the  ones  from  today,"  Chris  said. 

"You  need  hands  to  cut,  and  real  tools,  not  claws  and  junk  scrap,"  Rae 
said.  "You  need  intelligence  to  know  why  to  cut." 

"Doesn't  matter,"  Paladin  said.  "Kill  them  either  way." 

Rae  removed  the  headpiece  from  her  ear.  "It's  me  and  Havenport  on 
extermination.  You're  to  stay  behind  until  the  medicaid  arrives." 


80 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"I  got  work  to  do." 

"Not  with  your  injuries." 

Paladin  stood  up.  He  was  sober  now.  If  he  was  in  any  real  pain  from 
his  wounds,  it  was  hard  to  see.  "I  can  do  my  job,"  he  said. 

"Or  you'll  do  their  job." 

She  meant  Convert's  Disease,  Chris. realized.  That  the  native  could 
have  bitten  Paladin  had  not  occurred  to  him. 

Paladin  held  his  ground.  He  stared  at  Rae,  the  withering  stare  Chris 
knew  would  not  work  on  her. 

"Fifteen  years  I've  done  this,"  he  said.  "No  one  tells  me  when  to  do 
it.  It  doesn't  end  until  I end  it." 

"It's  an  order  from  Ev."  She  threw  the  radio  headset  across  the 
campsite,  a perfect  arc  between  herself  and  Chris.  Chris  caught  it,  startled. 
"Talk  to  him." 

Chris  held  the  headset  out  to  Paladin.  Paladin  took  it,  along  with  his 
flask.  He  walked  away  from  the  campsite,  toward  the  sound  of  the  river. 
Chris  started  to  rise,  to  bring  him  down,  then  stopped. 

Cynataka's  full  moon  was  high,  casting  a bright  yellow  glow  between 
the  spaces  in  the  trees.  Paladin  had  light  to  guide  by.  He  was  not  going  to 
off  himself,  no  matter  how  much  Chris  wished  he  would. 

He  and  Rae  were  alone.  Not  for  long,  but  long  enough  to  talk,  to 
touch. 

He  heard  her  rise  from  the  other  side  of  the  campsite,  the  click  of  a gun 
or  laser.  When  he  turned  to  look  at  her,  she  was  standing  near  the  campfire, 
holding  a gun  toward  the  ground.  The  light  sharped  her  features,  gave  her 
shadows  a spider's  frailness. 

He  thought  of  the  native  he'd  helped  kill  days  before.  The  one  who 
called  his  name. 

"I'm  gonna  go  find  him,"  she  said,  approaching  him.  Her  kiss  was 
eager,  sloppy.  "I'll  turn  on  the  perry.  Get  some  sleep,  'kay?" 

"Right,"  Chris  said,  as  she  slipped  between  the  trees.  He  closed  his 
eyes,  and  dreamed  of  flat  gold  eyes,  and  bloody  hands. 

At  dawn,  the  world  was  gray.  Chris  awoke  to  find  the  trees,  the  sky, 
everything  more  than  a meter  away  draped  in  fog.  There  was  no  sun  to 
speak  of,  only  a still  dampness  that  clung  to  his  skin  like  tape. 


HOME  OX  THE  RANGE 


81 


He  sat  up,  and  observed  his  surroundings.  Rae's  "perry,"  short  for 
makeshift  perimeter  shield  generator,  hissed  to  show  it  operated.  Her 
bedroll  was  bunched  together,  but  empty. 

Paladin's  bedroll  was  as  neat  and  ordered  as  always.  The  lack  of 
toiletries  around  it  suggested  he  had  slept  in  it  once,  hut  not  in  the  last 
hour  or  so. 

Then  where  was  he?  Or  they? 

Chris  walked  over  to  the  perimeter  shield.  He  stared  at  it  a moment, 
marveling  at  the  pipes  and  belts  that  made  it  work.  He  could  only  guess 
which  switch  turned  it  off,  and  was  lucky  to  find  it  on  the  first  try. 

He  took  the  rifle  from  their  gear.  Chris  decided  the  place  to  go  was  the 
river.  It  was  where  Paladin  had  headed  last  night.  It  was  where  he 
suspected  Rae  had  gone  after  him.  He  took  rushed  steps  through  the 
unfamiliar  territory.  The  stillness  of  the  morning,  and  his  suspicions, 
urged  him  on. 

The  ground  was  soft,  and  smelled  of  wet  leaves,  near  the  river's  edge. 
Chris  could  barely  see  the  water.  The  river  itself  was  man  made,  added  to 
the  region  by  the  New  River  Strike  Team  when  Cynataka  was  first 
discovered  and  claimed.  How  far  the  river  went,  Chris  didn't  know.  The 
source  was  the  water  table  below  the  Territory;  its  flow  controlled  by  a 
timer  to  ensure  it  rambled  lazily,  year  round. 

The  river  was  deep  where  Chris  had  stopped.  How  deep,  he  could  not 
tell.  But  floating  on  the  surface  were  soap  bubbles. 

He  followed  the  river  upstream.  More  soap  bubbles  graced  the  river's 
surface,  white  clouds  that  would  have  been  lighter  but  for  the  thick  fog 
cover.  Chris  could  not  see  the  other  side  of  the  river,  though  he  wanted  to. 

Maybe  the  natives  from  the  day  before  were  there.  It  stirred  the 
numbness  in  his  soul,  which  relieved  him,  a little.  Nothing  wrong  with 
thinking  about  them.  Nothing  at  all. 

The  soap  trail  started  at  Rae,  who  stood  bathing  in  the  river.  The  water 
went  up  to  her  waist.  She  was  turned  toward  the  opposite  shore,  humming 
as  she  lathered  herself  down. 

"Morning,"  Chris  said. 

Rae  stopped  soaping  herself.  "Morning." 

"Where's  Paladin?" 

"At  camp." 


82 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"No,  he's  not." 

"Then  I don't  know." 

Rae  rinsed  herself  off,  the  remaining  soap  drifting  away  downstream 
as  she  walked  from  the  river. 

"My  towel,"  she  said,  walking  past  Chris  toward  a tree.  She  smelled 
of  honey,  of  the  morning. 

She  dried  herself  off  as  slowly  as  she  had  left  the  water.  Chris  listened 
for  voices  as  he  watched  her.  He  listened  for  footsteps,  for  broken 
branches,  for  stray  coughs.  He  could  only  hear  the  roll  of  the  river. 

She  finished  drying  herself,  and  looked  at  Chris.  He  began  to  undress. 

She  wrapped  her  towel  around  her,  and  walked  through  the  trees, 
through  the  fog.  Chris  followed,  half  in  his  shirt,  still  in  his  shorts.  Rae  had 
stopped  at  a small  thicket.  A blanket  was  stretched  between  two  trees. 
Another  blanket  was  on  the  ground. 

"He  was  here  last  night,"  she  said.  "I  followed  him.  He  got  drunk, 
then  passed  out.  He  was  gone  this  morning.  No  native  marks.  Just  his." 

He  nodded,  and  approached  her,  his  clothes  in  his  arms.  He  placed 
them  on  a corner  of  the  ground  blanket. 

"Chris,"  she  said.  "We  do  this,  everything  changes.  Tell  me  every- 
thing changes." 

"Everything,"  he  said,  pulling  her  close.  "Changes." 

There  was  sunlight  at  the  campsite,  a faint  yellowing  of  the  fog  that 
allowed  Chris  to  see  more  of  the  surroundings  than  he  had  an  hour  before. 

"Took  an  inventory  of  your  supplies,"  Rae  said,  without  looking  up. 
"Shotgun's  missing.  Some  shot,  some  rock  salt.  Your  handgun  and  the 
stakes.  A day's  worth  of  food." 

Chris  picked  up  his  bedroll,  along  with  the  two  blankets  from  the 
copse.  "When  you  think  he  took  them?" 

"While  we  were  away." 

"We  have  to  go  after  him,"  Chris  said.  "Call  for  backup." 

"No.  I don't  need  backup.  I never  need  backup."  She  strangled  her 
bedroll,  pulling  the  cords  around  it  so  tight  he  could  hear  them  hum.  Then 
she  hoisted  it  on  her  shoulder.  "I'm  going  to  get  a few  things  from  my 
bike." 

Chris  watched  her  stomp  away,  his  eyes  following  the  damp  spot 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


83 


between  her  shoulder  blades  which  showed  through  the  fabric  of  her 
overalls.  He  cursed  in  his  head,  not  at  Rae,  but  at  himself. 

He  felt  the  same.  He  had  expected,  after  Paladin's  blessing,  after  that 
morning  with  Rae,  to  feel ... 

Normal,  he  supposed.  Rae  had  cried,  frustrated,  in  their  last  embrace. 
He  felt  the  guilt  he  had  felt  before,  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the  natives. 
They  had  cleaned  up  their  bed  at  the  river's  edge,  talking  of  the  new  lives 
they  would  have  when  New  River  was  settled. 

When  New  River  was  settled.  Chris  stared  at  his  bedroll.  Five  natives 
that  flew  still  at  large.  Unidentified  natives  at  the  border.  Paladin  missing, 
maybe  even  changed. 

He  wanted  to  laugh. 


HE  LAST  ATMOSTAT  was  gone  Wires  cas- 
I caded  from  the  post  where  it  had  been. 

I Rae  nudged  Chris,  pointed  to  the  mud  around  the 

atmostat.  There  were  soft  soled  footprints,  and  hoof- 
prints  in  sets  of  two. 

"A  man  did  this,"  Rae  said.  She  nudged  the  atmostat  post  with  the 
butt  of  her  rifle. 

"Paladin?"  Chris  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "But  he's  been  here.  What  would  he  do  now?" 

Chris  paced,  his  feet  sinking  in  the  mud,  the  water  from  it  leaking  into 
his  shoes.  The  atmostat  had  been  next  to  the  river,  in  an  area  that  was  part 
marsh,  part  forest.  The  trees  were  short  and  stubbly,  the  brush  cloud 
shaped  and  dark  green.  Fog  swirled  in  pools  around  his  ankles.  The  river 
gurgled  not  far  away.  It  sounded  like  it  was  going  down  for  the  third 
time. 

What  would  Paladin  do  now?  he  thought.  The  area  was  clean,  except 
for  the  footprints.  The  native  prints  topped  the  human  ones,  however.  Say 
Paladin  destroyed  the  atmostat  himself.  It  would  put  the  exterminator 
team  and  himself  on  his  trail  immediately. 

It  would  draw  natives  into  the  open. 

"A  duck  shoot,"  Chris  said.  He  looked  at  Rae.  "He's  setting  a trap." 

"Prints  go  south.  Looks  like  a clearing  through  those  trees.  I'll  go 
right,  you  go  left.  We'll  circle,  hope  we  find  them  before  they  find  us." 


84 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"Right."  He  took  the  rifle  from  his  shoulder,  checked  it.  "I'm  holding 
you  to  the  bunkhouse  when  we  cross." 

She  kissed  his  cheek.  "When  we  cross." 

He  stared  at  her.  Tears  brimmed  from  her  eyes. 

"See  ya,"  she  said. 

"Don't  do  this!  We  still  got  a chance  — " 

Rae  was  gone,  through  the  trees,  her  feet  silent  in  the  thick  mud  as  she 

ran. 

Chris  went  the  other  way,  feeling  strange,  inhibited.  Nothing  in  the 
last  hour,  the  last  days,  the  last  weeks,  was  right.  Rae  was  gone  to  him  in 
a way  he  could  never  recover  her  from.  Paladin  had  never  been  encourag- 
ing, never  been  bearable.  But  at  least  he  had  been  there. 

Now  he  was  alone. 

God,  he  thought.  Get  me  through  this. 

He  found  his  footing  on  more  stable  ground.  Fog  continued  to  drift 
around  him.  It  left  tree  branches  and  shrubs  slick  with  moisture.  The  river 
was  not  far.  He  could  smell  it  now,  the  pure,  freshwater  smell,  along  with 
the  scent  of  bank  mud. 

And  horse.  The  thick,  musty  smell  of  horses  and  fur,  when  it  was 

wet. 

He  released  the  rifle's  safety.  Shouldn't  be  horses  here,  he  thought. 

And  as  he  made  the  thought,  the  shotgun  went  off. 

It  was  unmistakable  thunder  in  the  dim  morning  air.  Chris  caught  a 
bright  spurt  of  light  less  than  fifty  meters  away.  He  broke  through  the  trees 
toward  it.  He  heard  another  shot. 

"Go!  Go!" 

The  sound  of  hooves  at  full  gallop  overpowered  the  sound  of  the  gun. 
Chris  stopped  by  a tree  not  far  from  the  action.  He  could  see  horses 
moving,  mnning  in  a circle.  Atop  them  were  human  torsos,  men  with  long 
hair  that  streamed  down  their  heads,  their  backs.  They  carried  sticks  and 
clubs,  a bow  and  arrow. 

Chris  thought  there  were  three  in  all.  He  did  not  see  the  fourth  until 
it  shot  him  with  an  arrow. 

The  blow  knocked  him  backward.  Chris  stared  at  the  arrow  protrud- 
ing from  his  upper  arm. 

Blood  poured  from  the  wound.  He  was  faint,  until  he  saw  the  native 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


85 


who  had  shot  him.  Average  in  size,  as  far  as  horses  went.  Its  gold  eyes  were 
still  and  daunting. 

"Who  are  you?" 

Chris  raised  the  rifle.  It  did  not  speak  American,  but  it  made  sense. 
Not  that  it  mattered  any  more.  "Get  away  from  me." 

It  scratched  its  ead,  confused  now.  "I  know  you." 

Chris  shot  it.  He  expected  it  to  fall  over;  instead,  it  crumpled,  its  legs 
collapsing  beneath  it.  Blood  ran  slowly  from  the  small  hole  in  the  front  of 
its  chest.  Chris  did  not  want  to  see  its  back. 

Its  expression  was  still  confused.  So  was  Chris's. 

I know  you,  it  said. 

Another  shotgun  shot,  this  time  closer  to  the  place  where  Chris  was. 
He  balanced  the  rifle  between  his  legs,  and  took  the  knife  from  his  belt. 
He  sawed  gently  into  the  arrow's  shaft,  and  when  he  could  not  take  the 
action  of  the  sawing  any  longer,  he  broke  the  rest  of  the  shaft  in  half  with 
his  free  hand. 

He  turned  in  response  to  the  pain.  He  found  himself  staring  into  the 
face  of  the  dying  native,  who  wore  a similar  expression,  though  its  eyes 
were  closed.  Its  breathing  was  ragged,  loud. 

"Havenport!" 

Chris  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  name.  Paladin  was  shouting  for  him 
from  the  clearing  ahead. 

"To  the  right!  To  the  right!" 

He  took  his  rifle  and  moved  on,  stilling  his  wounded  arm  as  best  he 
could.  The  sound  of  a rifle  shot  cracked  the  air.  It  had  to  be  Rae. 

There  were  two  natives  in  a circle  now.  One  was  limping  badly.  The 
other  was  struggling  with  Paladin.  Paladin's  clothes  were  tom.  His  hat 
was  still  on  his  head,  but  cocked  back  in  a way  so  it  looked  as  if  he  was 
about  to  fall  over  backward. 

Paladin  and  the  natives  were  struggling  over  the  shotgun.  Clubs  and 
sticks  lay  scattered  to  the  side  of  the  clearing. 

"Kill  him,"  Paladin  said.  He  turned  his  head  toward  Chris.  "Now. 
Shoot  him  now." 

The  native  looked  at  Chris.  Its  expression  was  set,  almost  confident. 

"Do  it!  You  done  it  before." 

"I  can't.  I've  been  hit." 


86 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


The  native  stared  at  him,  at  his  arm.  Then  it  lowered  its  head. 

"I  did  not  know  it  was  you.  I am  sorry,"  it  said. 

"It's  all  right,"  Chris  answered,  without  thinking.  "Not  your  fault." 

"Not  your  fault,"  Paladin  said.  Then  he  yelled  so  loud  it  startled  Chris 
and  the  native.  Paladin  yanked  the  gun  from  the  native's  hands. 

"No!  Don't!" 

Paladin  shot  the  native  in  the  chest,  in  the  head.  He  emptied  the  rifle, 
and  stumbled  away  from  the  creature's  remains.  He  began  to  dig  in  his 
coat  pockets. 

The  other  native  stumbled  into  the  brush.  Chris  turned  his  head  to 
watch  it,  too  tired  and  hurt  to  chase  it  down.  Then  he  turned  back  to 
Paladin. 

Paladin  found  what  he  was  searching  for,  and  aimed  it  at  Chris.  It  was 
the  hand  gun. 

"Should've  known,"  Paladin  said.  "Dammit." 

"What  did  I do?" 

"Deviated  from  the  pattern.  Acted  like  something  worth  keeping,  but 
you  ain't  no  different,  damn  you!"  He  released  the  safety,  pulled  the 
trigger.  "Should've  treated  you  like  the  others.  Should've  bagged  my  haul, 
then  made  you  pay  just  like  the  others." 

Chris  heard  the  bullet  before  it  hit  Paladin.  It  struck  him  in  the  heart; 
another  struck  him  in  the  kidneys.  He  swayed  for  a moment  before 
dropping  to  his  knees,  then  face  down,  into  the  soil. 

Rae  emerged  from  the  trees,  the  rifle  sitting  ready  to  fire  in  her  hands. 
Chris  stared  at  her,  then  at  Paladin. 

Then  back  at  her.  He  pulled  the  gun  from  Paladin's  hands.  He  aimed 
it  at  Rae. 

"You're  one  of  them,"  he  said. 

"So  are  you." 

"No." 

She  approached  him  slowly.  "Paladin  knew." 

"No." 

"It's  why  he  chose  you  from  the  orphanage.  It's  why  he  chose  all  of 
'em  from  the  orphanage,  don't  you  get  it?  We're  dropped  there  as  children, 
to  blend  in.  The  human  ones  draw  the  other  ones  out.  He  figured  that  out." 

He  tightened  his  grip  on  the  gun.  His  hands  shook. 


HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 


87 


She  was  closer  now. 

"Ev  put  us  together  on  purpose." 

"Convert's  Disease." 

"A  lie.  To  huy  us  time.  To  protect  you." 

Chris's  throat  was  tight.  His  voice  came  out  a whisper.  "You  killed 
Paladin." 

"You  never  would." 

She  was  squatting  next  to  him  now.  Slowly,  she  lowered  her  rifle. 
Then  she  put  a hand  on  Chris's  hand,  the  one  that  held  the  handgun.  She 
lowered  his  arm. 

"It's  our  land  first,"  she  said.  "It's  always  ours.  Then  the  settlers 
arrive." 

Chris  nodded,  numh  to  what  she  was  saying.  Where  do  the  gods  go 
when  they  die?  she  had  asked  him. 

Nowhere  was  the  answer.  They  never  left. 

He  dropped  the  gun  to  the  ground. 

"You  still  gonna  be  a ranger?"  he  asked,  after  a moment.  "In  Aurora 
Borealis?" 

"You  still  going  to  be  a pilot?" 

They  looked  at  each  other.  The  questions  hung  in  the  air,  vibrant,  full. 
The  words  on  the  tip  of  Chris's  tongue  were  just  as  vibrant,  just  as  potent. 

But  he  could  not  say  them.  In  his  heart,  he  honestly  did  not  know. 

Rae  stood  up.  She  slung  the  rifle  over  her  shoulder.  Chris  followed 
suit,  holding  the  rifle  in  his  good  hand,  letting  his  arm  hang  limply  to  his 
side. 

"I'll  call  for  help, " she  said.  "Paladin  got  ambushed.  We  finished  them 

off." 

"We'll  need  help  burning  them,  too." 

She  nodded,  and  went  for  their  equipment. 

Chris  stood  in  the  clearing,  watching  the  dead.  He  half  expected  the 
injured  native  to  return.  He  almost  hoped  it  would.  It  would  not  live  long 
without  medical  assistance.  He  could  help  it,  maybe. 

He  could  heal  it,  maybe. 

Chris  touched  his  arm.  In  his  fingers  was  the  spark  of  something.  He 
could  not  put  a name  to  it,  but  it  frightened  him  more  than  anything  else 
had  that  afternoon.'^ 


Films 


KATHI  MAIO 

KEN  AND  BARBIE  IN 
THE  HOUSE  OF  BUGGIN’ 


HE  LATE 

I science  fiction 

I master,  Rob- 

ert  A.  Hein- 
lein,  and  the  Dutch-born,  big-bud- 
get Hollywood  director,  Paul 
Verhoeven,  have  at  least  one  thing 
in  common  besides  Starship  Troop- 
ers, the  recent  $100  million  dollar 
movie  which  Verhoeven  directed 
from  one  of  Heinlein's  most  popu- 
lar novels.  Folks  have  always  sus- 
pected that  both  men  brought  a 
political  agenda  to  their  creative 
work.  And  yet,  there's  never  been 
much  consensus  on  exactly  what 
those  agendas  were. 

Heinlein  has  been  viewed  as, 
among  other  things,  a fascist,  a lib- 
ertarian, a social  Darwinist,  and, 
conversely,  as  a beloved  guru  of  the 
progressive  sixties  youth  rebellion. 
Verhoeven  has  been  viewed  as  a 
homophobe,  a sophisticated,  sex- 
positive, social  democrat,  a war 


survivor  horrified  by  barbarity,  and 
an  egotistical  blood- junkie  who  gets 
off  on  violence.  And  both  have  been 
labeled  admirers  of  independent 
women  as  well  as  sexist  pigs. 

Not  surprisingly,  judgment  of 
their  work  is  just  as  varied.  Is 
Heinlein  a hack  or  a literary  lion?  Is 
Verhoeven  a hack  or  an  auteur? 

If  I were  making  the  call  — and 
since  this  is  my  film  column,  I guess 
I am  — I'd  have  to  vote  for  all  of  the 
above.  Strong,  if  somewhat  self-con- 
tradictory, social  attitudes  seem  to 
be  present  in  the  work  of  both  men. 
And,  although  I recognize  the  high 
repute  and  influence  of  Heinlein's 
stories  and  novels,  and  (to  a much 
lesser  extent)  Verhoeven's  Dutch 
and  Hollywood  films,  I can't  say 
that  I've  ever  been  a fan  of  either. 

Maybe  testosterone  is  the  miss- 
ing link,  here.  I know  that  many 
men  get  quite  sentimental  about 
Starship  Troopers,  the  novel.  It  is 


FILMS 


89 


one  of  those  bildungsromans  that 
provide  many  young  lads  with  an 
exciting  blueprint  for  becoming 
manly  men.  But  Heinlein's  Hugo- 
winning  paean  to  the  warrior  spirit 
left  me  vaguely  offended  and  ex- 
tremely bored.  (And  if  I'd  had  to 
read  the  phrase  "on  the  bounce" 
one  more  time,  I would  have 
bounced  the  bloody  paperback  off 
the  wall.) 

Yes,  I know,  in  the  Terran  Fed- 
eration (and  at  certain  sf  conven- 
tions) I'd  probably  hang  for  such 
sedition.  Still,  even  though  I was  no 
fan  of  Heinlein's  novel  about  a 
young  man  named  Johnnie  who 
comes  of  age  by  training  to  fight  a 
race  of  "bugs,"  I certainly  recog- 
nized its  cinematic  potential. 
Starship  Troopers  is  the  kind  of 
book  that  would  allow  a filmmaker 
to  join  the  slick  design  of  sf 
moviemaking  and  state-of-the-art 
"creature  feature"  FX  with  the  more 
traditional  (and,  these  days,  seldom 
seen)  conventions  associated  with 
film  formulas  like  the  western  and 
the  war  movie. 

Screenwriter  Ed  (Robocop) 
Neumeier  was  certainly  aware  of 
the  rich  possibilities  when  he  first 
drafted  an  adaptation  and  brought 
it  to  producer  Jon  Davison.  And  the 
version  that  finally  made  it  onto 
the  big  screen  some  six  years  later 


is,  generally  speaking,  both  true  to 
his  source  material  and  to 
moviemaking  tradition. 

Oh,  there  is  plenty  for  the 
Heinlein  fanatic  to  grouse  about  in 
Starship  Troopers,  the  movie.  Less 
time  is  spent  on  Johnnie's  training 
(Officer  Candidates  School  is  com- 
pletely ignored)  and  more,  much 
more,  is  spent  on  bug  battles.  Cer- 
tain support  characters  are  com- 
bined. Other  minor  characters  who 
go  off  and  die  in  the  book  — notably 
Johnnie's  high  school  pal,  Carl 
(played  in  the  film  by  Doogie 
Bowser's  Neil  Patrick  Harris)  — go 
off  and  come  back  with  a higher 
rank  and  an  important  role  to  play, 
in  the  movie. 

And  then,  there's  the  romance. 
Heinlein  didn't  have  any.  (His  novel 
was,  after  all,  written  for  the  juve- 
nile market.)  Although  Heinlein's 
Johnnie  seems  fond  of  his  school 
chum  turned  pilot,  Carmencita,  he 
doesn't  actively  pursue  her  or  any 
other  passing  female.  Reading  this 
book,  you'd  almost  guess  that 
Heinlein  was  interested  in  the  mor- 
tification (corporal  and  capital  pun- 
ishment are  both  endorsed)  of  the 
flesh  much  more  than  its  gratifica- 
tion. 

But  N eumeier  evidently  felt  the 
need  to  spice  up  his  screen  concoc- 
tion with  lustful,  longing  glances 


90 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


as  well  as  machine  gun  fire.  He  has 
fashioned  a love  quadrangle  out  of 
bits  of  Heinlein  and  too  many  hours 
spent  watching  the  nighttime  soaps. 
In  the  film,  Johnnie  (Casper  Van 
Dien)  is  in  love  with  his  high  school 
sweetheart,  Carmen  (Denise  Ri- 
chards). But  Carmen  is  distracted 
by  her  military  aspirations  and  by 
the  hunky  charms  of  another  flyboy 
wannabe.  Zander  (Patrick  Mul- 
doon).  This  frustrates  Johnnie  no 
end,  keeping  him  from  recognizing 
the  total  devotion  of  Dizzy  (Dina 
Meyer),  a highly  attractive  quarter- 
back turned  crackerjack  infantry- 
woman. 

This  particular  subplot  sounds 
like  something  out  of  an  Aaron 
Spelling  production.  And  well  it 
might.  The  blandly  pretty  cast  of 
unknowns  — all  the  money  that 
would  have  gone  for  star  salaries 
was  transferred  into  the  FX  budget, 
instead  — are  veterans  of  shows 
like  Beveily  Hills  90210  and 
Melrose  Place,  as  well  as  daytime 
dramas.  They  make  toothsome  but 
plastic-looking  Aryan  warriors, 
which  gives  their  little  wartime 
space  opera  a kind  of  playtime 
sweetness.  Will  Ken  grow  up  to 
become  G.I.  Joe?  And  what  will 
happen  to  our  living  dolls  when 
Ken,  Barbie,  Skipper,  and  Scott  wan- 
der from  their  Malibu  Dream  House 


into  a nightmarish  House  of 
Buggin'? 

It's  certainly  fair  to  slam  the 
movie  for  its  romantic  flourishes. 
But  I don't  think  that  it's  appropri- 
ate to  complain,  as  some  have  done, 
about  the  film's  flat  characters. 
Heinlein's  characters  are,  if  any- 
thing, even  more  cardboard  than 
Neumeier's.  They  just  use  less  hair 
gel.  Even  Johnnie  is  a bit  of  a cipher 
by  the  end  of  the  book,  because 
Heinlein's  main  interest  wasn't 
character  study,  but  rather  the  pro- 
cess of  achieving  manhood  — the 
crucible  a boy  must  withstand  to 
achieve  full  citizenship.  Hence,  we 
see  Johnnie's  tribulations,  but  learn 
little  about  who  he  is  inside.  He  — 
and  we  — are  too  busy  listening  to 
the  diatribes  of  his  "History  and 
Moral  Philosophy"  teachers. 

A few  fines  of  these  lectures 
are  retained  by  the  film,  and  deliv- 
ered by  another  composite  charac- 
ter, school-teacher-tumed-platoon- 
leader,  Jean  Rasczak  (played  by  vet- 
eran character  Michael  Ironside  — 
one  of  the  few  real-looking  people 
in  this  movie).  But  since  this  is  an 
action  movie,  philosophizing  isn't 
done  by  words.  It  is  done  by  deed. 
And  by  the  shorthand  of  costume 
and  production  design. 

But  the  look  of  the  movie  is  one 
of  the  most  disturbing  elements. 


FILMS 


91 


Rather  than  downplay  the  (per- 
ceived as)  fascist  elements  of 
Heinlein's  novel,  director  Ver- 
hoeven  decides  to  play  them  up, 
bigtime.  Ellen  Mirojnick's  cos- 
tumes look  like  something  from 
the  Sixth  Reich.  Harris's  uniform 
late  in  the  movie  is  especially  star- 
tling, since  it  looks  just  like  that  of 
an  S.S.  officer.  Likewise  the  pro- 
duction design,  by  Allan  Cameron, 
creates  an  eerie  Earth  life  that  mixes 
California  chic  with  clean,  gleam- 
ing futuristic  fascism.  (Don't  miss 
the  Swastika-like  designs  on  the 
Federation  flags  and  insignia.) 

Now,  Starship  Troopers  is  ob- 
viously not  the  first  film  to  nazify 
the  after  ages.  But  few  have  done  it 
with  such  an  admiring,  positive 
spin.  (These  are  the  heroes  of  the 
film  in  the  nazi  youth  garb,  you'll 
recall.)  Some  of  Verhoeven's  shots 
— especially  those  in  the  Federa- 
tion news/commercial  spots  that 
pepper  the  film  — are  taken  right 
out  of  Leni  Riefenstahl's  Triumph 
of  the  Will.  And  he  has  admitted  as 
much.  While  producer  Davison 
notes  in  the  presskit  for  the  movie 
that  "[w]e  thought  the  idea  of  a 
fascistic  utopia  was  new  to  recent 
film;  it  was  both  interesting  and 
amusing." 

Yeah,  I'm  still  laughing  mer- 
rily over  that  one. 


Believe  it  or  not,  Verhoeven 
indicated  in  a recent  interview  that 
after  the  debacle  that  was  Showgirls, 
he  was  happy  to  do  a film  with  no 
"controversial  elements."  Guess 
again,  Paulie. 

Some  might  say  that  the  fas- 
cism of  Starship  Troopers  is  meant 
as  blistering  satire.  But  I don't  buy 
that.  I got  not  a whiff  of  irony  from 
the  entire  movie.  And  I swear  that 
none  of  the  mostly  young,  mostly 
male,  audience  I saw  the  film  with 
did,  either.  They  did  appreciate  the 
coed  shower  scene  and  the  close-up 
of  Dina  Meyer's  nice  breasts.  (A 
touch  Mr.  Heinlein  probably  would 
have  appreciated,  himself .)  And  they 
also  seemed  to  get  an  erotic  charge 
out  of  the  scene  in  which  the  buff 
young  hero  is  publicly  flogged. 
(Hmmm,  let's  skip  any  speculation 
on  what  that  means.) 

But,  mainly,  the  audience  had 
a high  old  time,  watching  the  ma- 
rauding pseudo-arachnids  of 
Klendathu  perform  the  many  de- 
capitations, amputations,  and  var- 
ied dismemberments  of  the  comely 
cast  in  the  movie's  repeated  battle 
scenes. 

Since  the  movie  version  of 
Starship  Troopers  is,  above  all,  a 
creature  feature  with  an  overpopu- 
lation problem,  let  me  take  a mo- 
ment to  say  something  about  the 


92 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


bugs.  They're  really  swell.  And 
scary.  I mean  that. 

The  ever-brilliant  Phil  Tippett 
and  all  the  magicians  he  amassed  to 
do  Computer-Generated  Imagery 
and  full-scale  mechanical  critters 
outdid  themselves  on  this  one.  They 
created  a range  of  gruesome  insects 
(tanker  bugs,  brain  bugs,  plasma 
bugs,  hoppers,  and  the  ever-popular 
warrior  bugs)  that  truly  had  the 
power  to  keep  you  on  the  edge  of 
your  seat. 

And  maybe  that's  enough,  to- 
day. Maybe  it  shouldn't  matter  that 
the  performers  seemed  more  con- 
cerned about  hitting  their  marks 
than  creating  a believable  perfor- 
mance. And  who  cares  that  battle- 
scene-to-battle-scene  plot  move- 
ment was  driven  by  movieland 
cliches.  (Of  course.  Mom  and  Dad 
"buy  the  farm" — as  Heinlein  would 
have  said  — while  they  are  on  the 
videophone  with  their  son.  And,  of 


course,  a cheerful,  noble  black  grunt 
is  going  to  have  to  blow  himself  up 
to  save  his  white  cohorts.  And,  of 
course,  when  the  platoon  leader  kills 
one  of  his  own  who  is  injured  and 
captured,  and  then  says  "I'd  expect 
someone  to  do  the  same  for  me," 
we  know  that  shortly  thereafter  the 
hero  will  have  to  do  just  that.  Etc., 
etc.) 

Let's  not  ponder  why  they  send, 
in  the  high-tech  future,  ground 
troops  to  fight  a pincer  ^ mano  battle 
with  a race  of  dedicated  "troopers" 
five  to  twenty  times  bigger  than 
they  are.  (Isn't  Dow  Chemical  still 
around  to  create  a cross  between 
Raid  and  Napalm?)  And  let's  not, 
for  goodness  sake,  worry  our  heads 
about  the  politics  of  this  action 
extravaganza. 

Let's  just  enjoy  the  carnage. 
And  wish  Ken  and  Barbie  well  as 
they  goose-step  their  way  into  the 
future. 


K.  D.  Wentworth  lives  in  Tulsa.  Oklahoma,  with  a large  dog  and  numerous 
finches.  She  is  often  drawn  to  religious  themes  in  her  writing;  last  Christmas,  you 
may  recall,  she  gave  us  a decidedly  different  view  of  holy  days  in  “’Tis  the 
Season.  ” Now  she  takes  us  to  the  stars  with  a more  serious  and  rather  luminous 
story  of  missionaries  among  an  alien  race. 


Wentworth 


F 


ATHER  JOHANNES  KNELT 

beside  the  grave,  his  cassock  bunched 
to  protect  his  knees.  The  cold,  too-thin 
air  of  Sheah  Four  wheezed  through  his 


straining  chest.  He  bowed  his  head  in  prayer,  then  hoisted  the  final  rock 
to  the  top  of  the  eaim.  Sitting  back  on  his  heels,  he  ached  for  his  native 
Alps,  for  stately  old  Luzern  poised  like  a cut  jewel  on  its  shimmering  blue 
ice-melt  lake,  the  pristine  swans  that  drifted  across  the  mirrored  surface 
like  angels.  When  he  closed  his  eyes,  he  could  smell  the  water  lapping 
against  wet  stone,  see  the  boxes  of  red  and  pink  and  white  flowers 
crowding  every  window. 

He  shuddered.  When  he  qualified  for  the  two-man  missionary  post 
here,  he  had  thought  the  mountains  rearing  up  into  the  violet-tinged  sky 
would  feel  like  home,-  he'd  imagined  small  faces  turned  up  to  him,  not 
human,  of  course,  but  recognizably  innocent  and  trusting,  waiting  for  the 
gifts  of  love  and  salvation  he  brought.  Nothing  in  his  training  at  the 
seminary  had  prepared  him  for  a malevolent  yellow-white  sun  that 


94 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


burned  his  fair  skin  a leathery  walnut-brown,  or  dry,  oxygen -poor  air  that 
made  his  chest  ache  all  the  time.  And  no  one  had  really  explained  about 
the  khe. 

He  lurched  heavily  to  his  feet  and  saw  one  of  the  beasts  sitting  on  its 
haunches  behind  him,  its  green  eyes  wide,  neckfrill  spread  to  catch  the 
sun,  a study  in  kheish  patience.  Its  satiny  black  skin  crawled  with 
photobiotic  green  fire  in  the  sunlight. 

The  young  priest's  hands  trembled  as  he  picked  up  the  simple  cross  he 
had  crafted  from  native  wood.  Just  being  near  one  of  these  heathen  creatures 
still  made  him  break  out  in  a cold  sweat.  The  blunt,  lipless  snout,  the 
earless  skull,  the  long  sinuous  body,  every  part  of  it  screamed  serpent. 

He  stared  at  it.  At  this  time  of  day,  it  should  be  perched  on  a rock 
somewhere,  soaking  up  the  sun.  What  did  it  want?  Surely  not  salvation. 
In  the  eight  months  since  he  and  Father  Gareth  had  arrived,  he  had 
realized  at  least  that  much.  The  khe  were  filthy  beasts,  barely  sentient, 
uninterested  in  artifice  or  artifacts,  having  nothing  in  common  with 
humanity.  And  yet,  as  Father  Gareth  had  frequently  reminded  him,  the 
Lord  God  had  made  them  as  surely  as  He  had  made  everything  else,  and 
therefore  how  could  Johannes  not  love  them? 

He  wedged  the  cross  into  a crevice  between  the  stones  and  anchored 
it  with  gravel.  He  coughed,  then  coughed  again,  a hard  wracking  spasm 
that  could  only  be  controlled,  not  cured.  His  throat  was  continually  raw, 
his  cells  slowly  starving,  a condition  that  had  weakened  Father  Gareth 
and  ultimately  killed  him.  "The  oxygen  content  there  is  marginal,"  the 
Placement  Office  had  said,  "but  man  can  survive." 

But  was  mere  survival  the  same  as  living?  Johannes  knew  now  it  was 
not.  Despite  the  rigorous  selection  process,  they  had  sent  the  wrong  man. 
Sheah  Four  brought  out  faults  in  him  that  he  had  never  suspected;  he  was 
a weak  vessel,  even  base.  Without  Father  Gareth's  experience  and  gentle 
guidance,  he  would  never  be  able  to  carry  on  the  Lord's  work  here. 

Behind  him,  the  khe's  clawed  fingers  scritched  over  the  rubble. 

He  steeled  himself,  then  turned  to  meet  the  poisonous  green  eyes. 
The  beast  was  full  grown,  its  head  reaching  his  shoulder  as  it  sat  on  all 
fours.  "What  — does  one  want?"  he  whistled  in  the  stilted  kheish 
grammar  that  knew  nothing  of  personal  names  and  permitted  only  the 
present  tense. 


TALL  ONE 


95 


The  khe's  muzzle  wove  from  side  to  side,  black  tongue  flickering  like 
summer  lightning.  "Speak  of  one  under  rocks." 

Johannes  blanched.  He  wanted  to  say  a funeral  mass  over  the  grave, 
speak  the  ancient  words  meant  to  give  comfort  to  those  left  behind  and 
find  serenity  in  the  familiar  motions  in  this  hellish  place  so  far  from  home, 
but  he  knew  what  Father  Gareth  would  have  done.  He  closed  his  eyes, 
praying  for  guidance.  He  had  tried  to  communicate  with  the  primitives 
many  times  without  success.  These  creatures  had  no  word  for  God,  no 
word  for  affection  or  love.  How  could  he  even  begin  to  explain  that  Father 
Gareth  had  gone  to  his  Maker? 

"Tall  one  goes  to  live  with  its  parent,"  he  said  in  the  barbarous 
whistlespeech. 

"Not  lives  — dies!"  The  khe  scrabbled  forward,  snout  raised,  and 
curled  three  sinuous  fingers  around  his  wrist.  Its  flesh  clung  to  his  skin 
like  warm  plastic. 

Johannes  stiffened,  his  heart  racing  sickly.  He  could  not  bear  these 
creatures  to  touch  him.  Gritting  his  teeth,  he  tried  to  think  of  some  way 
to  explain.  "Tall  one  walks  this  earth  no  more,  but  — walks  in  another 
place  with  — parent."  He  tried  to  ease  away  from  its  grip,  but  it  held 
on. 

The  slitted  eyes  were  glittering  wells  of  emerald.  "Another  place?" 

Did  it  understand?  "Yes." 

The  black  tongue  darted  out-in.  "Where?" 

"Place  where  — one  goes  when  one  dies."  In  spite  of  the  chill,  sweat 
beaded  the  priest's  brow.  He  mopped  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve. 

The  khe  sidled  closer  until  he  could  feel  its  breath  on  his  face,  hot  and 
feathery,  musky.  "One  who  dies  goes  to  mountain." 

Johannes  grimaced.  The  khe  exposed  their  dead  high  up  on  the  side  of 
the  mountain  where  predators  and  scavengers  feasted  on  the  remains,  a 
heathenish,  disgusting  custom.  "One's  body  goes  to  mountain,  but  one's 
— " He  shuddered  as  it  pressed  closer.  Its  neckfrill  was  in  his  face  now.  The 
photobiotic  iridescence  was  more  noticeable  there,  green  splotches  and 
lines  that  separated,  then  ran  together  like  a map  of  some  distant  place 
he'd  never  been.  "One's  — " he  tried  again,  then  finally  gave  in  and  used 
the  human  term,  even  though  it  was  just  meaningless  sounds  to  the  khe. 
"One's  spirit,  what  is  inside,  goes  back  to  parent." 


96 


FANTASY  A,  SCIENCE  FICTION 


The  khe  whistled  something  shrill  and  incomprehensible  and  pushed 
him  away,  bathing  him  in  a smoldering  green  gaze  before  it  wandered  into 
the  surrounding  purple-gray  scrub.  He  stared  after  it,  rubbing  his  wrist, 
then  sank  to  his  knees  on  the  rocks  before  the  crude  wooden  cross  and 
gripped  his  hands  in  prayer  until  his  knuckles  shone  white.  The  chill  thin 
air  dried  the  tears  on  his  cheeks  almost  as  fast  as  they  fell. 


E DIDN'T  RETURN  to  the  rectory  until  the 
yellow-white  sun  hung  low  in  the  sky,  already  half- 
obscured  by  the  mountains.  He  limped  along  the  mossy 
bluff  overlooking  the  stream,  his  knees  bruised  and 
aching,  passing  khe  after  khe  stretched  out  in  the  sun  like  sleek  black 
plants,  soaking  up  radiant  energy.  He  had  to  hurry.  When  the  sun  sank 
behind  the  mountains,  the  khe  would  stir  themselves  and  hunt  until 
twilight  deepened  into  darkness.  He  found  their  cheerful  slaughter  at  that 
time  of  day  even  more  disturbing  than  watching  them  like  this. 

Their  photobiotic  cells  provided  a large  portion  of  their  daily  energy 
intake,  perhaps  as  much  as  fifty  percent,  according  to  the  exobiologists 
who  had  catalogued  Sheah  Four  several  decades  ago,  but  for  the  rest  of 
their  energy  needs,  as  well  as  trace  elements  and  certain  vital  nutrients, 
the  khe  hunted  small  insects  and  animals,  consuming  them  in  a brief 
feeding  frenzy  during  the  hours  when  the  light  was  no  longer  direct 
enough  to  fully  stimulate  their  photobiotic  cells,  but  darkness  had  not  yet 
rendered  them  torpid. 

He  passed  the  rows  of  straggly  peas  and  green  beans  in  Father  Gareth's 
tiny  kitchen  garden,  remembering  the  tall,  patient  blond  man.  From  the 
moment  he  had  first  set  foot  in  this  shimmering  silver  and  violet  valley. 
Father  Gareth  had  loved  the  khe,  ministering  to  them  tenderly,  anointing 
the  soft-skinned,  playful  pups  with  holy  water  and  baptizing  them  one  and 
all  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  "It  doesn't  matter  that  they  don't  understand, " 
he'd  said.  "In  time  they  will,  and  the  Lord  wants  them  now." 

Johannes  couldn't  repress  a shudder.  "They  look  like  snakes." 

Father  Gareth's  mild  blue  eyes  narrowed.  "Rather  more  like  sala- 
manders, I should  think,  if  you  must  speak  of  Earth,  but  they  are  not  of 
Earth.  They  are  themselves,  beautiful  in  their  own  right,  holy  in  their 
perfection  as  God's  creatures." 


TALL  ONE 


97 


Holy....  Johannes  shivered  and  entered  the  prefabricated  one-room 
bungalow  he  had  shared  with  the  older  priest. 

After  a miserable  dinner  of  warmed-over  beans  and  rice,  he  sat  down 
before  the  tiny  scribe's  screen  and  tried  to  complete  Father  Gareth's 
reports.  The  ship  would  return  with  two  replacements  in  eighteen  months 
and  they  would  expect  to  see  figures  — so  many  baptized,  so  many 
converted,  so  much  of  the  Bible  translated  and  preached  to  the  khe.  If 
Father  Gareth  had  lived,  it  might  have  all  happened.  As  it  was... 

He  crossed  his  arms  on  the  keyboard  and  rested  his  forehead  against 
them.  They  would  find  Father  Gareth  dead  and  his  mission  dead  along 
with  him,  no  converts,  no  church,  no  alliance  with  the  khe.  His  eyelids 
drooped. 

"Son,  you  can’t  give  up,"  Father  Gareth's  voice  whispered  suddenly, 
but  Johannes  lacked  the  energy  to  look  up.  "You  have  to  make  them 
understand." 

"But  — " Johannes  fought  to  open  his  leaden  eyes.  He  seemed  to  feel 
warm  fingers  rest  upon  his  head  in  benediction. 

"Go  out  among  them  and  minister.  Feed  my  flock." 

He  started,  sat  up,  blinking,  heart  pounding.  He  was  alone,  of  course, 
the  only  light  the  screen's  pale  luminescence.  Outside,  the  sun  had  dipped 
behind  the  mountains,  casting  the  valley  into  darkness.  The  unceasing 
wind  howled  around  the  tiny  building.  Minister  to  the  khe?  He  shook  his 
head.  They  were  the  most  self-sufficient  creatures  he  had  ever  known, 
needing  neither  garments  or  housing,  tools  with  which  to  cultivate  or 
weapons  to  hunt.  And  as  for  their  spiritual  needs,  as  far  as  he  and  Father 
Gareth  had  been  able  to  ascertain,  they'd  never  conceived  of  God  in  any 
form,  however  primitive.  What  could  Johannes  offer  them  that  they  could 
possibly  need? 

He  pulled  on  his  heavy  coat,  pocketed  the  stunner  and  picked  up  the 
freshly  charged  cold-lantern.  He  had  seldom  gone  out  at  night  himself,  but 
he  knew  that,  after  dark,  the  khe  sought  out  small  depressions  of  rock  and 
huddled  together  in  a half-conscious  torpor  caused  by  ebbing  energy  levels 
which  made  them  vulnerable  to  nighttime  attack. 

He  stepped  out  into  a singing  darkness  that  was  more  a shade  of  deep 
purple  than  black,  his  ears  instantly  numbed  by  the  fierce  wind.  He  pulled 
his  hood  up  and  switched  on  the  lantern.  Overhead,  the  stars  continued 


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FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


their  slow  eternal  dance,  dazzling  and  indifferent.  He  shivered  and  picked 
his  way  through  clumps  of  scrubby  silver-sage  toward  the  nearest  rocky 
rise  that  had  shown  signs  of  khe  habitation. 

The  lantern  caught  a mass  of  supple  black  bodies  threaded  with  green 
fire  that  blazed  under  the  intense  white  light.  Hot  liquid-jade  eyes  slitted 
open.  Johannes's  mouth  moved,  but  he  suddenly  felt  ridiculous.  What 
could  he  say? 

Minister  to  them.  Father  Gareth  whispered  inside  his  head. 

He  cleared  his  throat  nervously.  "Does  — one  need  anything?" 

The  black  tangle  quivered,  then  a khe  separated  itself  and  slunk 
toward  him,  belly  pressed  to  the  rock-strewn  ground.  "Light,"  it  whistled. 
"Light-that-moves!"  It  touched  its  snout  to  his  boots. 

The  others  surged  forward  then  and  enclosed  him  in  a warm  press  of 
lithe  bodies,  staring  expectantly  up  at  his  face.  He  shifted  his  weight 
uncomfortably. 

"Tall  one  comes  back,"  a khe  whistled  softly,  "from  under  rocks." 

He  flinched.  They  were  confusing  him  with  Father  Gareth,  who  had 
often  come  out  in  the  night  like  this.  "No,"  he  answered,  then  squatted 
down,  even  though  the  touch  of  their  satiny  hides  made  him  want  to  run. 
The  breath  shuddered  in  and  out  of  his  lungs  as  he  set  the  cold-lantern  on 
the  ground.  "But  once  many  suns  ago  in  this  one's  place  — " He  hesitated, 
trying  to  frame  the  familiar  old  story  in  the  khe's  restrictive  present  tense 
grammar.  "Once  one  dies  and  comes  back  after  three  suns." 

A khe  gripped  his  leg,  lightly,  almost  like  a caress.  "Tall  one?" 

"A  tall  one."  He  tried  to  meet  the  bottomless  green  eyes  without 
looking  away.  "One  comes  and  speaks  of — " This  was  the  point  at  which 
he  always  failed.  He  knew  the  kheish  word  for  physical  joining  for  the 
purpose  of  procreation,  but  had  never  found  any  word  to  express  love  or 
reverence.  "Speaks  of  liking  for  parent,  for  sibling,  for  offspring."  He 
hesitated,  watching  their  attentive  ebony  faces.  "One  has  a sound  for  this 
liking?" 

The  khe  were  statues  focused  on  the  light. 

"One  has  this  same  liking  for  these,  for  all  tall  ones."  He  touched  his 
chest,  feeling  the  pounding  of  his  heart  within.  Was  he  finally  going  to 
make  them  understand?  "The  one  who  comes  back  has  this  liking  for  all 
khe  too." 


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99 


"Where  is  this  one?"  The  khe,  still  holding  his  leg,  cocked  its  head. 

Johannes's  chest  ached.  "Outside." 

"Where? " The  khe's  digits  tightened  until  its  claws  pierced  the  coarse 
fabric  of  his  cassock. 

"Outside  sky,  mountains,  outside  — everything,"  he  faltered. 

The  khe  released  him.  Its  eyes  narrowed,  baffled,  unbelieving.  Johannes 
sighed  and  picked  up  the  lantern.  They  surged  around  him,  snuffling, 
whining  in  the  backs  of  their  throats,  plucking  at  the  lantern  with  anxious 
digits. 

"Light!"  they  whistled  softly,  then  louder,  more  boldly.  "Light-that- 
moves!" 

His  skin  crawling,  Johannes  shoved  past  them,  tripping  over  their 
legs,  bouncing  off  smooth  sides,  and  fled  back  to  the  rectory,  slamming  the 
door  behind  him  and  throwing  the  bolt. 

Late  into  the  night,  as  he  hunched  on  his  cot  in  the  dark  and  stared  at 
the  invisible  ceiling,  he  heard  the  whisper  of  bodies  against  the  door,  the 
skritch  of  claws  on  the  roof. 

They  were  still  there  when  he  emerged  the  next  morning,  twenty  or 
more,  arrayed  in  a scattered  semicircle,  neckfrills  already  spread  to  catch 
the  first  slanting  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  He  hesitated  in  the  doorway,  his 
fingers  gripping  the  frame.  Uncertain  of  their  mood,  he  made  himself  cross 
the  threshold. 

A khe  raised  its  muzzle.  "Tall  one  comes  back  from  rocks." 

"No."  Johannes  swallowed  hard.  They  were  still  confusing  him  with 
Father  Gareth.  "Tall  one  does  not  come  back.  Tall  one  is  dead."  He 
touched  his  own  chest.  "This  one  Father  Johannes."  Whistletalk  did  not 
permit  true  reproduction  of  human  speech  phonemes,  but  he  used  the 
rhythm  of  the  syllables  while  assigning  them  tones. 

The  rows  of  khe  stared  at  him  in  stony  silence.  He  knew  they  didn't 
use  personal  names,  and  yet,  why  not?  They  understood  the  concept  of 
nouns,  and  how  could  he  explain  about  God  and  Jesus  and  the  saints  if  he 
could  never  refer  to  them  by  name?  Just  because  the  khe  had  no  names 
now  didn't  mean  they  couldn't  learn.  "Father  Johannes,"  he  whistled 
again,  pointing  at  himself.  "You  make  same  sound." 

The  only  movement  was  the  nervous  dance  of  paper-thin  tongues. 


100 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


then,  one  by  one,  they  turned  their  green  eyes  away  and  drifted  into  the 
feathery  silver-sage.  His  hands  clenched  as  he  watched  them  glide  away. 
Not  now,  not  when  he  was  so  close!  He  could  feel  they  were  on  the  very 
edge  of  comprehension.  Just  a few  minutes  more  and  he  might  be  able  to 
at  least  begin  to  lead  them  to  God. 

"Wait! " he  whistled  and  ran  to  block  one's  path.  He  touched  his  chest. 
"Make  sound  — Father  Johannes,  Father  Johannes!" 

The  khe  hissed  and  drew  back,  its  head  weaving  in  confusion,  its 
black  tongue  flickering.  "Light,"  it  said.  "This  one  go  light." 

"One  time!"  Gasping  in  the  too-thin  air,  Johannes  stepped  in  front  of 
it  again  as  it  tried  to  slither  around  him.  "Make  sound!" 

The  startled  khe  fastened  needle-teeth  in  his  upper  arm  and  tossed 
him  aside  with  one  shake  of  its  muscular  neck.  His  head  stmck  the  rectory 
steps  with  a sharp  burst  of  pain,  and  then  a black  nothingness  swallowed 
him. 


r IS  HEAD  THROBBED  and  sharp  edges  bit  into 
" his  flesh,  weighing  him  down,  making  it  even  more 
difficult  to  breathe  than  usual.  His  eyes  opened,  but  he 
saw  only  a faint  grayness. 

Where  was  he?  Panic  surged  through  him.  He  couldn't  breathe.  He 
had  to  get  up!  He  struggled  to  move  his  arms,  his  legs.  Finally,  with  a 
grating  rattle,  his  right  leg  moved  a few  inches  and  whatever  was  holding 
him  down  rolled  away,  partially  freeing  his  right  arm  as  well.  He  wriggled 
and  squirmed  and  more  weight  slid  away  until  he  finally  could  sit  up. 

Rocks  surrounded  him,  covering  his  torso  and  left  leg,  ranging  in  size 
from  pebbles  to  fist-sized  stones.  He  stared  numbly.  The  khe  must  have 
thought  he  was  dead  and  buried  him  in  a shallow  layer  of  rubble  in  the 
same  way  he  had  covered  Father  Gareth's  grave  yesterday. 

He  had  a marble-sized  knot  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  was  scraped 
from  head  to  toe.  His  left  arm  ached  fiercely  where  the  khe's  bite  had 
broken  the  skin.  He  bent  forward  and  rested  his  throbbing  forehead 
against  his  knees,  seeking  the  strength  to  get  up  and  go  inside  the  rectory 
before  the  khe  came  back  and  finished  the  job. 

He  had  been  so  stupid,  losing  control  and  frightening  them.  His 
cheeks  burned  as  he  remembered  how  Father  Gareth  had  been  the  very 


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101 


soul  of  patience  and  understanding  with  these  primitive  creatures.  Now 
they  would  never  listen  to  him.  He  would  never  lead  them  to  God. 

At  dusk,  the  khe  gathered  outside  the  rectory,  whistling  in  a low 
chorus  that  harmonized  in  a minor  key.  His  heart  pounded  as  he  cracked 
the  door.  Above  the  mountains,  the  gathering  night  was  a deep  purple 
contrasting  with  paler  mauve  in  the  west.  A mass  of  black  bodies  waited, 
more  than  had  come  that  morning,  more  than  he  had  ever  seen  at  the  same 
time  since  he  and  Father  Gareth  had  arrived,  possibly  the  entire  khe 
population  of  the  valley. 

A large  beast  stepped  forward,  its  body  alive  with  iridescent  photobi- 
otic fire,  its  simmering  green  eyes  focused  on  his  face.  "One  comes  back 
from  under  rocks." 

He  pocketed  the  stunner  before  opening  the  door  further  and  easing 
down  the  steps.  The  temperature  had  already  dropped  below  freezing  and 
his  breath  plumed  white  in  the  growing  dimness.  He  smelled  the  dank 
muskiness  of  their  bodies.  "You  cover  one  with  rocks,  but  this  one  not 
dead." 

"Tall  one  comes  back!"  it  insisted  shrilly. 

Several  khe  filtered  through  the  assembled  ranks  and  dropped  small 
gray  lumps  in  the  silvery  moss  at  his  feet.  Without  taking  his  eyes  off  the 
khe,  he  bent  his  knees  and  fumbled  for  one  of  the  lumps.  His  fingers  closed 
around  a small  furry  beast,  punctured  by  khe  tooth-marks,  still  faintly 
writhing.  Warm  blood  seeped  over  his  hand. 

He  shuddered  and  held  it  out.  "What  is  this  for?" 

The  large  khe  nosed  the  animal  in  his  hand.  "Eat,  then  one  makes  light. " 

So  they  had  brought  him  food,  probably  a good  sign.  He  stroked  the 
tiny  rodent-like  creature's  silken  fur,  regretting  its  pain.  Perhaps  the  khe 
were  sorry  too  for  hurting  him  earlier.  Perhaps  they  did  have  the  capacity 
for  a conscience,  a potential  for  recognizing  and  avoiding  sin. 

"Wait."  He  ducked  back  inside  and  laid  the  suffering  creature  on 
Father  Gareth's  cot.  He  put  on  his  coat,  then  took  the  cold-lantem  outside 
and  set  it  on  the  ground,  the  white  bulb  cutting  through  the  darkness  like 
a beacon.  The  khe  whistled  softly  and  surged  forward,  neckfrills  raised  as 
though  it  were  full  daylight. 

He  sat  on  the  rock-strewn  ground  beside  the  lantern,  aching  all  over. 


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FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


especially  in  his  wounded  arm.  His  throat  was  dry.  "This  one  does  not 
come  back."  He  pointed  to  himself.  "But  once  one  does." 

A khe  nosed  the  lantern.  "One  comes  back,  makes  light? " 

"No."  Johannes  rubbed  his  throbbing  forehead  and  frowned.  No 
matter  how  hard  he  tried,  things  always  seemed  to  get  mixed  up.  "This  one 
different.  This  one  — " He  concentrated,  trying  to  get  the  best  approxima- 
tion of  the  human  phonemes  in  whistletalk.  "This  one  Jesus." 

The  khe  were  creeping  closer,  curling  themselves  around  the  well  of 
cool  white  light  until  sleek  black  bodies  laced  with  iridescent  green 
enclosed  him  on  every  side.  Their  watching  eyes  were  hot  pools  of  melted 
emeralds. 

He  resisted  the  claustrophobic  urge  to  push  them  back.  "Jesus  dies, 
then  comes  back  after  three  suns,  has  much  liking  for  khe." 

A smaller  khe  scrabbled  up  and  over  the  backs  of  the  ones  blocking  it 
from  the  light  and  plopped  down  in  front.  The  others  hissed  at  it,  shifting 
their  three-toed  forelegs  restlessly. 

"This  one,  Jesus,  says  khe  must  like  each  one,  each  khe,  and  — " 
Another  young  beast  climbed  the  black  wall  of  bodies,  slid  down  to  the 
front  and  knocked  the  lantern  over  with  its  splayed  claws.  Johannes 
hastily  shoved  the  beast  back  and  righted  the  lantern.  "And  each  khe  must 
like  this  one,  this  Jesus." 

One  of  the  larger  adults  seized  the  young  interloper  by  the  ruff  and, 
with  a powerful  twist  of  its  neck,  tossed  it  back  into  the  crowd.  A fight 
erupted  as  it  landed  halfway  back  and  the  khe  became  a whirling  mass  of 
bodies  that  clawed  and  bit.  Some  retreated,  but  others,  jostled  or  struck  by 
accident,  leaped  into  the  fray  until  it  was  a full-blown  riot. 

Appalled,  Johannes  scrambled  to  his  feet  as  they  rolled  toward  him. 
The  khe  had  never  once  shown  aggression  toward  each  other  in  all  the 
cultural  studies  done  in  the  early  survey.  That  was  one  of  the  primary 
reasons  the  Church  had  thought  them  promising  enough  to  establish  a 
mission  here. 

"Stop!"  he  whistled.  "One  must  stop  this  now!" 

The  squirming,  clawing  creatures  bowled  into  the  lantern  and  knocked 
it  over.  This  time  the  light  flickered  and  failed.  The  fighting  lasted  a few 
more  seconds,  then  sputtered  out  in  the  darkness.  All  sound  died  away 
except  for  the  hiss  of  labored  breathing. 


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103 


Johannes  fumbled  for  the  lantern  and  hugged  it  to  his  chest.  Blood 
thundered  in  his  ears.  Khe  snuffled  at  his  heels  as  he  edged  toward  the 
rectory,  one  arm  extended  to  find  his  way  in  the  darkness. 

"Light,"  it  whistled  mournfully. 

Then  another  took  up  the  chorus,  "Light-that-moves!" 

His  groping  hand  found  the  door  and  keyed  it  open  with  his  palm- 
print.  It  slid  aside  and  a tall  rectangle  of  yellow  light  spilled  out  onto  the 
mossy  ground  outside.  He  looked  back  and  saw  green  eyes  staring  at  him 
hungrily. 

The  rodent-creature  died  twitching  in  his  hands  later  in  the  night. 
Johannes  wrapped  the  soft  gray-furred  body  in  one  of  Father  Gareth's 
shirts.  No  doubt  they  hadn't  meant  to  be  cruel,  any  more  than  they  had 
meant  to  hurt  him,  or  each  other.  They  were  savages,  unenlightened.  They 
needed  the  Word  more  than  any  primitives  he  had  ever  worked  with  back 
on  Earth. 

But  whistletalk  was  so  limited.  If  only  Father  Gareth  were  with  him. 
Kneeling  beside  the  cot,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  prayed  for 
guidance.  All  he  wanted  was  to  do  good  here,  make  their  pathetic  lives 
fuller,  give  them  a possibility  of  salvation  and  grace.  If  only  the  Lord  would 
show  him  the  way. 

At  dawn,  he  fell  into  an  exhausted  sleep  filled  with  angry  khe  that 
snapped  and  hissed,  and  Father's  Gareth's  craggy,  disappointed  face. 
There  was  something  the  older  priest  wanted  him  to  do,  something  he 
couldn't  quite  grasp.  It  glittered  above  his  head  in  purest  blues  and  reds 
and  yellows  like  the  immense  stained  glass  rose  window  he  had  seen  once 
in  Notre  Dame,  beautiful  and  utterly  out  of  reach. 

He  awoke  with  a start,  his  head  pillowed  on  his  outstretched  arms  on 
his  cot,  his  back  stiff,  a hot  dryness  behind  his  eyes.  Something  was 
scratching  at  the  door,  rhythmical  and  insistent.  He  glanced  at  his  watch 
— eight  o'clock  local  time,  well  after  dark.  He  rose  to  his  feet  unsteadily 
and  picked  up  the  stunner  before  he  slivered  the  door  open. 

A scattering  of  stars  glittered  down  from  the  purple-black  sky.  The 
valley's  complement  of  khe  sat  on  their  haunches,  waiting,  little  more 
than  sleek  black  lumps  in  the  faint  glimmer  of  starlight.  "Light,"  one 
whistled,  then  the  rest  took  up  the  refrain.  "Light-that-moves!  Light!" 


104 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"No! " Johannes  stepped  outside  and  pulled  the  door  closed  to  help  his 
eyes  adjust  in  the  dimness.  "No  light!  Go  away!" 

They  quieted  gradually,  but  did  not  move.  Johannes  shivered  as  the 
frigid  night  wind  shrilled  around  the  rectory.  "Go  now,"  he  said.  "One 
talks  in  sun." 

"One  comes  back  from  under  rocks,"  a front  khe  said.  Four  or  five 
beasts  surged  forward,  dragging  something  long  and  heavy  between  them, 
much  larger  than  the  rodent-creatures  they  had  brought  the  night  before. 

He  stared  down  at  the  dark  shape,  but  could  make  nothing  out. 
Finally,  he  slipped  back  into  the  rectory.  The  bulb  in  the  cold-lantern  was 
cracked  from  the  night  before  so  he  changed  it,  then  took  it  outside.  The 
khe  stood  back  from  their  offering  as  he  squatted  down  to  illuminate  it. 

Pallid  white  skin  reflected  the  lantern  light,  bloodless  lips  drawn  back 
over  teeth,  dull  blond  hair,  sunken  sightless  eyes  — it  was  Father  Gareth. 

Johannes's  mouth  fell  open  in  a soundless  cry  of  shock. 

A large  khe  nosed  the  body.  "One  comes  back." 

"Don't  touch  him!"  Johannes  shoved  the  beast  back,  then  raised  the 
stunner.  "Go  away!"  He  fired  into  the  air.  The  charge  crackled  like 
lightning,  dissipating  harmlessly  above  his  head.  The  khe  stirred,  whis- 
tling among  themselves,  staring  at  the  cold-lantern  with  hungry  eyes. 

Shaking,  he  thumbed  the  setting  to  its  lowest  level  which  would  only 
shock.  Hot  tears  welled  in  his  eyes  as  he  fired  at  the  nearest  beast.  It 
squealed  as  its  muscles  spasmed,  then  recovered  and  limped  off  into  the 
darkness.  Sobs  wracked  him  as  he  fired  again  and  again  until  the  pack 
dispersed. 

His  head  rang  and  the  flat  taste  of  ozone  from  the  weapon's  discharge 
filled  the  chill  air.  He  knelt  at  Father  Gareth's  side  and  hesitantly  crossed 
the  battered  arms  over  the  corpse's  chest,  then  sat  back  on  his  heels, 
hugging  himself  and  rocking.  All  the  sun-filled  days  in  Switzerland  amidst 
the  polished  wood  and  ancient  stone  of  the  seminary,  all  those  hours  of 
discussing  the  joy  of  bringing  the  lost  to  God,  none  of  it  had  ever  prepared 
him  for  this  place  and  these  disgusting  creatures.  And,  worst  of  all  was  the 
knowledge  that  this  obscene  misunderstanding  must  be  his  fault;  he  had 
failed  to  tell  the  story  in  a way  the  khe  could  understand. 

He  didn't  know  what  to  do.  If  he  buried  Father  Gareth  again,  they 
would  undoubtedly  just  dig  the  corpse  up  and  tote  it  back.  Perhaps  if  he 


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105 


took  the  body  up  into  the  mountains  and  exposed  it,  then  they  would 
understand....  But  no,  he  couldn't  allow  his  mentor  and  brother  priest  to 
be  treated  like  a piece  of  meat.  There  had  to  be  another  way,  something 
cleaner,  more  dignified,  something  the  khe  could  not  undo. 

Finally  he  decided  on  fire,  not  the  Church's  preferred  method,  but 
allowable  and  at  least  final.  He  took  the  cold-lantern  down  to  the  stream 
and  searched  for  driftwood  as  the  wind  gusted  and  the  night- hunters  cried 
out  in  the  surrounding  hills.  The  breath  wheezed  through  his  chest  in  the 
chill,  oxygen-poor  night  air.  When  he  finally  had  enough  wood  for  a pyre, 
he  laid  Father  Gareth's  body  atop  the  crooked  stack  and  lit  a layer  of  silver- 
moss  around  the  edges  with  a lighter. 

The  flames  started  slowly,  almost  reluctantly,  but  eventually  gained 
strength  until  they  roared  and  glowing  sparks  drifted  up  into  the  darkness. 
He  kept  watch  through  the  night,  adding  more  wood  as  needed. 

Hot  green  eyes  followed  him  everywhere,  keeping  pace  when  he  left 
to  search  for  wood,  then  returning,  sitting  just  outside  the  circle  of  light, 
waiting,  waiting  for  something.  He  was  afraid  to  think  about  what. 


Y MORNIN G,  the  ashes  still  steamed  and  the  scent 
of  wood  smoke  hung  low  over  the  valley.  The  khe  had 
I 1 ^ slunk  off  to  their  favorite  sunning  rocks  with  the  first 
rays  of  dawn.  Church  doctrine  demanded  the  ashes  be 
collected  and  interred  together,  but  that  would  have  to  wait  until  later  in 
the  day  when  they  had  cooled.  He  made  his  way  to  the  rectory  on  leaden 
feet  and  tumbled  onto  his  cot,  drawn  down  into  a whirling,  exhausted 
sleep. 

He  woke  at  dusk,  his  eyes  swollen  from  tears  shed  in  his  sleep,  his  face 
wet  and  raw.  He  washed  and  changed  his  smoky  cassock  for  a clean  one, 
choked  down  a few  bites  of  a nutrition  concentrate,  then  found  an  empty 
equipment  box  and  went  outside  to  complete  Father  Gareth's  last  rites. 

The  khe  surrounded  the  silvery  ashes,  solemn  and  silent.  They  closed 
in  behind  him  as  he  pushed  past  their  lithe  black  bodies,  the  stunner  ready 
in  his  fist.  His  legs  felt  distant  and  clumsy,  like  lifeless  stumps  he  had  only 
borrowed.  He  placed  the  box  on  the  ground  and  opened  the  lid.  "Go  away, " 
he  told  the  front  row  of  khe. 

"Tall  one  comes  back,"  one  of  the  beasts  whistled.  "Becomes  light." 


106 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


Johannes's  eyes  flicked  toward  the  silver-black  ashes.  "No,  tall  one  is 
dead." 

"Tall  one  becomes  light,  fills  darkness  like  sun ! " The  khe's  green  eyes 
were  round  and  earnest.  "This  one  sees." 

The  surrounding  khe  hissed  in  assent.  Their  satiny  black  muzzles 
wove  from  side  to  side.  Their  clawed  toes  curled. 

Why  did  it  always  come  down  to  light;  he  asked  himself.  Then  he 
looked  down  at  the  khe  with  their  neckfrills  raised  to  catch  the  last  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  Light  gave  them  life  and  movement,  provided  raw 
energy  for  their  cells.  Light  was  a pleasure  as  much  as  eating  was  to  a 
starving  human,  the  fulfilling  of  a basic  physical  need,  the  cessation  of 
hunger.  Pagan  creatures  that  they  were,  they  saw  light  as  the  source  of  life, 
not  understanding  that  all  light,  as  part  of  Creation,  comes  from  God. 

He  sank  to  his  knees  and  bowed  his  head,  praying  for  forgiveness.  Did 
not  the  Bible  say,  "God  is  light,  and  in  him  is  no  Darkness  at  all."  He  had 
been  foolish  and  short-sighted,  but  perhaps  there  was  a way  to  bring  them 
the  Word. 

After  he  buried  Father  Gareth's  ashes  in  the  struggling  garden,  he 
ranged  far  downstream  and  gathered  as  much  driftwood  as  he  could  find 
before  dark.  When  the  sun  had  fallen  behind  the  purple-gray  mountains, 
he  brought 

out  the  cold-lantern  and  waited. 

The  khe  appeared  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  their  tongues  sam- 
pling the  night  air,  their  eyes  questioning.  He  sat  on  the  ground  before  the 
pile  of  wood  with  a Bible  in  his  hands.  When  the  sleek  black  backs 
surrounded  him  on  every  side  and  he  could  see  expectant  green  eyes 
watching  from  far  out  in  the  darkness,  he  opened  the  Bible  to  the  first  page. 
"In  the  beginning.  One  makes  the  sky  and  the  ground, " he  read,  paraphras- 
ing the  verses  into  whistletalk.  "And  darkness  is  everywhere." 

The  khe  shifted  restlessly.  A medium-sized  adult  at  his  feet  said 
plaintively,  "One  comes  back?" 

"Darkness  is  everywhere,"  Johannes  repeated  and  stared  meaning- 
fully up  into  the  black  night  sky.  "And  One  says  let  there  be  light  and  there 
is  light."  He  pointed  at  the  lantern. 

The  khe  edged  forward,  raising  its  neckfrill,  its  eyes  unblinking. 


TALL  ONE 


107 


"This  One  makes  light,  this  one  God. " He  picked  up  the  lantern.  "You 
make  sound  — God." 

The  restless  khe  nosed  one  another,  clawed  the  silver-sage,  snuffled 
softly. 

He  turned  the  lantern  off  and  heard  the  uneasy  shuffle  of  their  bodies. 
"God  makes  light.  You  say  God!" 

"Light!"  a khe  whimpered.  The  others  took  up  its  refrain,  echoing  it 
far  back  into  the  darkness.  "Light!  Light-that-moves!" 

"No!"  Johannes  lurched  to  his  feet.  "God!  God  makes  light!"  He  held 
the  dark  lantern  above  his  head.  "Say  God!" 

The  khe  crawled  through  the  darkness  to  touch  their  noses  to  his  feet, 
pull  at  his  upraised  arm.  He  could  feel  their  distress  like  a deepening  pool 
around  him,  black  as  the  night,  twice  as  bitter.  "Say  God!" 

"God,"  one  whistled  brokenly,  and  then  another,  and  another. 

He  turned  the  lantern  on  and  let  the  cool  white  light  flood  down  as  the 
khe  sat  back  on  their  haunches  and  stared.  "God  likes  khe,  all  khe,"  he 
said,  his  heart  pounding  with  elation.  "God  makes  light  for  khe." 

They  were  solemn  and  unmoving  as  he  set  the  lantern  down  and 
reached  for  the  lighter  in  his  pocket.  He  needed  more  light,  something 
bigger  that  would  really  impress  them.  He  held  the  lighter  to  a wad  of 
silver-moss  packed  around  the  edge  of  the  wood  and  watched  the  stringy 
strands  curl  into  flame. 

As  the  wood  caught  fire,  the  khe  began  to  whistle  an  eerie  chorus  that, 
as  far  as  he  could  tell,  held  no  meaning,  just  sound.  The  fire  reached  high 
into  the  sky,  eating  into  the  darkness.  Much  later,  when  the  khe  finally 
finished  their  song,  they  pressed  forward.  He  held  his  arms  out  to  them, 
overcome  with  the  emotion  of  the  moment.  They  knew  God's  name  now, 
had  finally  recognized  Him  as  the  Creator  of  all  things,  after  all  these 
unnumbered  millennia.  At  last  the  khe  could  take  their  place  at  God's 
feet,  singing  His  praises  with  the  rest  of  the  universe. 

"Light,"  a front  beast  whistled.  "Tall  one  is  light!"  It  charged  Johannes 
and  butted  him  into  the  bonfire. 

He  sprawled  on  his  back,  his  arms  still  outstretched  in  welcome.  His 
clothing  smoldered  as  he  scrambled  out  into  the  dirt  and  rolled.  His  eyes 
smarted  from  the  smoke  and  the  seared  flesh  on  his  back  burned.  He 
hunched  over,  coughing. 


108 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


The  khe  backed  away,  their  eyes  trained  reverently  on  his  face.  The 
logs  shifted  and  sparks  fained  outward  as  his  heart  sped  into  a new,  feral 
rhythm  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Earth. 

"Light!"  The  khe's  muzzles  wove  back  and  forth  as  they  crooned  a 
new  litany  above  the  whip-crackle  of  the  flames.  "Tall  one  is  light!  God 
makes  light!  Tall  one  comes  back!" 

Johannes  glanced  back  into  the  flames  and  seemed  to  see  something, 
or  rather  someone,  a body  outlined  in  living  fire,  holding  out  a hand  to 
him,  its  face,  infinitely  patient,  topped  by  fiery  hair  and  a firm  mouth  of 
red  coals.  His  vision  swam.  "Father  Gareth! " Waves  of  pain  swept  through 
his  burned  back  and  shoulders,  and  his  tongue  seemed  three  sizes  too  big. 
"What  — ?" 

The  apparition  swept  its  hand  toward  the  waiting  khe,  its  eyes 
flaming  holes  into  another  universe.  For  now  and  all  the  rest  of  your  days, 
you  must  tend  these,  God’s  children.  Guard  them  well,  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven. 

"But  — they  don't  understand!"  Johannes  sank  to  his  knees.  "And 
they  never  will.  Their  language  is  too  primitive,  their  intelligence  too 
different,  too  — limited,  and  there  is  nothing  I or  anyone  else  can  do." 

You  have  brought  them  this  far.  Father  Gareth  said  in  a spray  of  fiery 
red  sparks.  God  never  sets  your  hand  to  a task  beyond  your  strength.  You 
must  try  harder.  There  is  a way,  and  you  must  try  until  you  find  it. 

Johannes  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  dabbing  cool  antibiotic  cream  on 
his  bums.  Feverish  thoughts  raced  through  his  head;  the  khe  only  vmder- 
stood  what  they  could  see  and  feel  and  smell,  what  could  be  presented 
before  their  stubby  black  noses,  so  the  main  impediment  to  their  conver- 
sion was  that  the  story  of  Christ's  sacrifice  was  rooted  in  the  past, 
nonexistent  as  far  as  the  khe's  eternal  now  was  concerned.  The  story  had 
to  be  brought  forward  and  invested  with  meaning  in  the  present  to  make 
it  accessible. 

The  cream  soothed  his  bums.  He  drank  a glass  of  tepid  water  and 
stretched  out  on  his  side,  thinking....  What  had  men  known  of  salvation 
and  redemption  before  Christ  had  come  to  show  them  the  way?  What 
would  they  know  even  now  if  He  had  not  given  His  life  for  their  sins? 

It  was  a troubling  question  that  had  no  answer. 


TALL  ONE 


109 


Over  the  next  months,  he  fell  into  the  pattern  of  sleeping  most  of  the 
day  and  then  walking  the  night,  either  carrying  the  cold  lantern,  or 
building  a bonfire  when  he  could  find  enough  wood.  Each  evening,  as  he 
emerged  from  the  rectory,  the  khe  greeted  him  with  the  same  joyful 
words,  "Tall  one  comes  back!" 

And  he  answered,  "Yes,  tall  one  always  comes  back."  They  gathered 
around  the  light  to  hear  him  painstakingly  paraphrase  another  page  or  two 
of  the  Bible,  rendering  the  verses  in  terms  they  might  understand.  They 
listened,  neckfrills  spread  to  the  light,  immobile  as  a legion  of  black 
statues  until  dawn.  Though  his  strength  steadily  waned  and  his  oxygen- 
starved  body  was  often  ill,  he  used  his  meager  supply  of  medicines  to 
doctor  their  minor  injuries  and  ignored  his  own  needs. 

His  lungs  burned  constantly  now  so  that  breathing  was  an  effort.  He 
coughed  up  blood  and  often  woke  from  his  fitful  daytime  sleep,  gasping  for 
air,  knowing  his  abused  body,  unsupervised  by  consciousness,  had  simply 
abandoned  the  overwhelming  struggle  needed  to  keep  on  breathing. 

But  his  mind  refused  to  give  up.  He  had  so  much  more  to  accomplish. 
The  khe  were  poised  on  the  very  edge  of  comprehension  and  faith;  he 
sensed  it.  They  could  repeat  a few  of  the  translated  verses  now,  and 
sometimes  asked  for  certain  stories  they  liked,  such  as  Abraham's  near 
sacrifice  of  Isaac  to  the  flames.  What  they  needed  at  this  point  to  transport 
them  into  a state  of  grace  was  no  more  or  less  than  man  had  needed  himself 
— a miracle,  and  though  he  earnestly  prayed,  he  was  well  aware  that 
miracles  were  not  available  upon  demand. 

On  a fine,  clear  night  somewhere  in  the  twenty-fifth  month  of  his 
posting,  too  weak  to  hike,  he  sat  on  his  heels  on  the  cold  rocky  soil, 
tending  his  bonfire  and  studying  the  stars,  scattered  like  a handful  of 
diamonds  across  the  deep-purple  sky.  The  khe  had  arranged  themselves  in 
surrounding  rows,  their  green  eyes  reflecting  the  flames. 

A persistent  fever  had  dried  his  mouth  and  worsened  his  breathing 
until  the  effort  to  move  or  speak  was  almost  beyond  him.  He  tucked  his 
chilled  hands  under  his  armpits  and  huddled  over  the  ever-present  hollow 
ache  within,  remembering  Father  Gareth  in  this  same  condition  at  the 
end,  admitting  finally  to  himself  that  he  wasn't  going  to  survive  the 
twenty  days  left  until  the  supply  ship  returned  with  his  replacements.  He 


110 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


was  going  to  die  with  this  vital  work  left  undone,-  then  someone  else  would 
have  to  start  all  over  again,  would  have  to  suffer  the  same  failures  and 
misunderstandings,  perhaps  never  even  succeed  as  far  as  he  had  himself. 
And  all  the  time,  there  would  be  the  khe,  trapped  outside  the  Kingdom  of 
God,  his  responsibility  and  his  failure,  a final  stain  upon  his  soul. 

He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet  and  cast  another  armful  of  driftwood 
onto  the  fire.  The  effort  send  him  into  a coughing  fit  as  the  flames  roared 
above  his  head,  extravagant  and  wasteful.  The  khe  whistled  apprecia- 
tively at  the  size  of  the  fire  and  edged  closer.  He  turned  and  waited  until 
the  spasm  had  passed.  "Tall  one  goes  to  its  parent,  to  God." 

"Goes?"  a particularly  large  khe  asked  plaintively.  "What  parent? 
Where?" 

Gravity  seemed  to  shift  ninety  degrees.  He  fell  to  his  knees  and  caught 
himself  on  his  hands,  his  heart  hammering  as  he  threw  all  his  will  into  the 
effort  to  draw  another  breath,  and  then  another.  "When  tall  one  goes,"  he 
wheezed,  fighting  the  terrible  urge  to  cough,  "the  khe  must  remember  the 
stories  it  has  told  of  the  other  tall  one  who  comes  back." 

The  large  khe  blinked  and  tilted  its  head  in  what  Johannes  had  come 
to  recognize  as  a posture  of  uncertainty. 

"Though  this  tall  one  must  go,"  he  said  numbly,  "the  one  who  comes 
back  never  leaves.  That  tall  one  is  always,  always  with  the  khe." 

"Where?"  The  khe's  head  twisted.  A whistle  of  distress  rustled 
through  the  other  beasts  and  they  too  craned  their  necks  to  see  what 
wasn't  there. 

He  sagged.  It  was  not  enough.  Their  minds  were  too  literal,  trapped  in 
an  ever-present  now  without  the  possibility  of  history  or  a future.  They 
would  never  understand  unless  they  saw  the  story  played  out  before  their 
very  eyes.  They  had  to  experience  Christ,  had  to  touch  the  nail  holes  in  his 
palms,  see  him  die  and  then  rise  again  as  man  had,  but  God  had  not  seen 
fit  to  send  His  son  to  this  forsaken  place.  Pain  knifed  through  him  and  he 
felt  a liquid  bubbling  deep  within  his  lungs. 

A smaller  khe,  barely  half  grown,  broke  from  the  ranks  and  scrambled 
up  the  rectory  steps.  "Tall  one!"  It  scrabbled  at  the  door.  "One  who  makes 
light!" 

Although  khe  could  not  recognize  his  face,  it  obviously  still  remem- 
bered when  there  had  been  more  than  one  man  here.  Humans  were 


TALL  ONE 


111 


interchangeable,  faceless  units  only  notable  in  their  usefulness.  He  meant 
nothing  to  them  as  an  individual,  and  the  new  priests  on  their  way  would 
mean  no  more.... 

He  stiffened,  arms  braced  around  his  chest  against  the  pain.  Through 
the  red  haze  behind  his  eyes,  he  sensed  the  glimmering  of  an  understand- 
ing that  had  eluded  him  for  months.  Khe  could  not  tell  one  human  from 
another,  and  so,  no  matter  how  many  individual  priests  came  here  over 
the  years,  in  a sense  they  would  all  be  Father  Gareth,  the  tall  one  who 
comes  back,  a host  of  Christs  risen  from  the  tomb. 

At  last,  he  knew  what  to  do  and  staggered  to  his  feet.  "Tall  one  goes 
to  its  parent  now,  to  God,"  he  rasped,  "but  comes  back  in  twenty  suns." 
He  ran  his  fingers  over  the  satiny  hide  of  the  nearest  beast.  It  was  warm 
and  smooth,  like  the  skin  of  a woman  or  a young  child.  He  was  surprised 
now  that  he  had  ever  found  it  hideous.  "The  khe  must  watch  for  this  one 
and  greet  it  upon  its  return,"  he  said,  then  was  doubled  over  by  a terrible 
fit  of  coughing.  He  gritted  his  teeth  and  waited  for  it  to  end. 

"Tall  one  always  comes  back,"  he  forced  out  finally.  The  khe  stared 
at  him,  waiting  as  always,  his  spiritual  children,  on  the  brink  of  under- 
standing. He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  his  chest,  then  lurched  head- 
first into  the  bonfire  before  he  could  change  his  mind.  For  a second,  the 
flames  licked  his  clothing  and  boots  and  hair  without  effect.  The  khe's  hot 
green  eyes  followed  him. 

It  was  all  right,  he  told  himself,  as  his  cassock  burst  into  ruddy  flame. 
This  was  not  suicide,  but  sacrifice,  freely  given  in  the  oldest  of  ways,  out 
of  love.  God  understood.  The  stench  of  his  burning  flesh  permeated  the 
smoky  air,  then  the  burning  wood  collapsed  under  his  weight,  pitching 
him  into  the  bed  of  red-hot  coals. 

"Light!"  the  khe  chorused.  "Tall  one  is  light!  Tall  one  comes  back!" 

And  he  would  — in  about  twenty  days,  Johannes  thought  as  a roaring 
crimson  darkness  swept  him  away.  As  long  as  men  roamed  the  stars,  tall 
one  would  always  come  back. 


Michael  Blumlein's  last  story  to  appear  here  was  "Paul  and  Me" in  our  October 
issue.  The  following  tale  is  a very  different  proposition  entirely,  a strange  vision 
that  draws  upon  Dr.  Blumlein 's  work  as  a physician  and  puts  a whole  new  spin  on 
the  notion  of  vengeance.  Michael  Blumlein  lives  in  San  Francisco  and  is  currently 
working  on  his  third  novel  (after  X,  Y and  The  Movement  of  Mountains.^ 


Revenge 

By  Michael  Blumlein 


T 


HE  BURIAL  TOOK  PLACE 

at  Our  Lady  of  Tears  in  Colma,  and 
Luis  stayed  until  the  others  had  gone, 
until  the  diminutive  grave  was  filled 
and  tamped  with  dirt  and  the  gravediggers  had  shouldered  their  shovels 
and  gone  on  to  dig  elsewhere.  He  stayed  until  he  was  alone,  and  so  it  was 
that  he  alone  saw  the  child  ascend.  Barely  a week  old  when  she  died,  she 
looked  slightly  older  now,  a child  of  perhaps  three  months  of  age,  driven 
by  hunger  and  other  primal  urges  and  forced  to  look  outside  herself  for 
help.  Her  eyes  wandered  this  way  and  that,  unfocused,  it  seemed, 
uncensoring,  until  at  last  they  fixed  on  her  father.  She  seemed  to  recognize 
him.  Her  face,  which  up  to  that  moment  had  been  a minor  chaos  of  muscle 
contraction  and  relaxation,  became  still. 

Luis  was  mesmerized.  Emotion  left  him.  He  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

She  told  him  she  had  died  too  soon.  She  blamed  the  doctor.  "The  blood 
is  on  his  hands.  Father." 

Luis  believed  the  same.  "What  should  I do?" 


REVENGE 


113 


"Blood  for  blood,"  she  said. 

Luis  nodded.  This,  too,  he  believed.  "How?"  he  asked. 

"Man  to  man.  And  do  not  wait  too  long.  The  sooner  the  better." 

Luis,  who  had  been  floundering  since  her  death,  agreed.  He  was  happy 
at  last  for  a way  to  channel  his  grief,  and  with  more  hope  than  he  had  felt 
in  many  days,  he  rejoined  his  wife  Rosa,  who  was  being  comforted  by  her 
family.  At  his  arrival  she  took  his  hand,  which  was  cold,  and  by  that,  and 
the  look  on  his  face,  she  knew  immediately  what  was  in  his  heart. 
Despairing,  she  beseeched  him  otherwise.  She  begged  him,  she  kissed  his 
hand,  she  pressed  his  palm  to  her  heart.  But  Luis  could  not  be  moved.  His 
hand  stayed  cold,  and  Rosa,  foreseeing  another  tragedy,  broke  down  in 
fresh  tears.  Dutifully,  Luis  took  her  in  his  arms.  One  of  her  sisters 
muttered  a blessing.  An  aunt,  wringing  a tear-stained  handkerchief, 
invoked  the  love  of  God.  Someone  keened. 

A week  later,  Rosa  tried  to  reason  with  her  husband.  "I  have  spoken 
with  a lawyer,"  she  told  him  after  the  boys  were  in  bed.  "He  wants  to 
meet  with  us." 

"I  have  no  interest  in  lawyers,"  replied  Luis. 

"He  asks  for  no  money.  He  just  wants  to  talk." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say." 

"He  wants  to  help  us,  Luis.  He  says  there  are  grounds  for  a strong 
case." 

"Grounds,  he  means,  for  him  to  get  rich." 

"He  knows  of  another  baby  who  died  at  this  doctor's  hands.  We  are 
not  the  first.  The  lawyer  says  the  doctor  could  be  charged  with  negli- 
gence." 

"Rosa,"  said  Luis.  "Look  at  us.  Who  are  we  to  accuse  a doctor?" 

"Not  us.  The  lawyer.  He  would  do  the  talking.  He's  a smart  man,  Luis. 
He  asked  questions  that  made  me  think.  Questions,  he  said,  they  should 
have  asked  in  the  hospital.  I trust  him." 

Luis  was  silent.  He  had  no  time  for  lawyers,  no  trust  in  anyone  but 
himself.  Man  to  man,  she  had  said.  An  eye  for  an  eye.  It  was  his  duty.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  did  not  want  to  cause  his  wife  unnecessary  grief. 

"Then  go  to  him,"  he  said.  "Talk  to  this  la'wyer." 

"Yes?" 

"By  all  means.  Please.  We  must  do  what  is  right." 


114 


FANTASY  Si  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Luis  by  nature  was  not  a violent  man.  Before  the  death  of  his  daughter, 
he  was  tender  with  his  wife  and  gentle  with  his  children.  And  even  after, 
the  violence  he  planned  did  not  spill  beyond  its  target.  He  didn't  yell  at  the 
kids  or  bark  at  his  wife,  didn't  lose  his  temper  at  work  or  with  friends.  If 
anything,  he  seemed  more  docile  than  usual,  except  to  Rosa,  who  knew 
him  best.  She  worried,  but  she  also  held  out  hope  that  with  time  his 
wounds  would  heal. 

Luis  owned  a machete  from  his  days  as  a field  hand  in  Mexico.  He  had 
used  it  to  cut  wood,  clear  brush  and  on  occasion  kill  a chicken  for  dinner. 
It  had  an  ebony  handle  that  he  polished  and  a steel  blade  he  kept  sharp. 
Three  weeks  after  his  daughter's  death,  he  left  in  the  morning  as  usual,  but 
instead  of  going  to  work,  he  drove  to  the  medical  building  where  Dr. 
Admonson  had  his  obstetrics  practice.  He  wore  a white  button-down 
shirt,  pressed  pants  and  cowboy  boots.  His  hair  was  slicked  down  and 
parted,  his  mustache  neatly  trimmed.  He  carried  the  machete  loosely  in 
his  left  hand,  drawing  curious  glances  from  passersby,  none  of  whom  took 
it  upon  himself  to  comment.  At  the  medical  building  he  rode  the  elevator 
to  the  third  floor,  where  he  exited  with  two  youngish  women  and  an 
elderly  man.  Dr.  Admonson's  office  was  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  on  the 
left.  The  waiting  room,  whose  pastel  walls  were  hung  with  watercolors  of 
flowers  and  idyllic  landscapes,  was  full  of  women.  Some  were  at  term; 
some  were  just  getting  started;  one  or  two  suckled  newborns.  Luis  was 
the  only  man  in  the  room.  He  was  also  the  only  person  carrying  a 
machete. 

He  found  an  empty  place  on  a couch  next  to  a woman  with  a toddler 
in  her  lap  and  took  a seat.  A hush  fell  in  the  room  as  everyone  took  note 
of  him.  He  stared  at  the  floor.  The  toddler,  drawn  by  the  gleaming 
machete,  squirmed  away  from  her  mother  and  went  for  the  blade.  Luis 
quickly  blocked  her  way  and  shook  his  finger  in  remonstrance.  An  instant 
later,  her  mother  snatched  her  back.  A nurse  in  a starched  white  lab  coat 
opened  an  interior  door  and  called  the  name  of  a patient.  The  two  of  them 
disappeared  inside,  at  which  point  Luis  got  up  and  tapped  on  the 
receptionist's  frosted  window.  It  slid  open. 

"May  I help  you?" 

"I  want  to  see  the  doctor."  - 


REVENGE 


115 


The  receptionist  was  a woman  in  her  sixties  with  silver  blue  hair  and 
glasses  that  magnified  her  eyes.  She  sat  at  a low  desk  from  whose  vantage 
point  the  machete  was  hidden. 

"Are  you  here  with  someone?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  have  an  appointment? " 

"He  delivered  my  baby.  I want  to  talk  to  him." 

She  pushed  her  glasses  up  the  bridge  of  her  nose  and  peered  at  Luis. 
"Pertaining  to  what?" 

"My  baby,"  he  repeated.  "Maria  Elena  Hermosilla  Rodriguez." 

Dr.  Admonson  had  a number  of  patients  named  Rodriguez,  but  the 
receptionist  kept  up  with  the  mothers,  not  the  babies.  The  name  was  not 
familiar  to  her.  She  looked  at  her  appointment  book. 

"I  have  an  opening  tomorrow  at  two." 

Luis  stared  at  her  blankly.  He  was  not  prepared  to  negotiate. 

"Two  tomorrow?"  she  repeated. 

"Today,"  he  said. 

"We're  very  busy  today." 

This  met  with  no  reply,  and  the  receptionist,  a retired  retail  clerk  with 
passing  knowledge  of  the  vagaries  of  human  behavior,  deemed  it  an 
inopportune  time  to  persevere.  She  rechecked  her  book. 

"All  right.  I'll  try  to  squeeze  you  in.  You'll  have  to  wait  though." 

Luis  nodded  and  returned  to  his  seat.  Several  more  patients  were 
called  by  the  nurse,  while  others  entered  the  office  to  take  their  places.  He 
was  troubled.  He  loved  women  of  all  ages  and  types,  but  most  of  all,  he 
loved  women  who  were  carrying  new  life.  Pregnancy  was  a miracle  and  a 
sacrament  to  him,  a time  for  women  to  be  honored,  protected  and  loved 
especially  hard.  How  could  he  kill  the  doctor  without  creating  panic 
among  them?  Even  behind  closed  doors  they  would  hear  him  hacking 
away,  they  would  smell  the  blood  and  suffer.  Then  the  burden  of  guilt 
would  be  on  him. 

The  nurse  appeared  at  her  door  and  called  his  name.  Slowly,  he  stood, 
machete  in  hand,  hacking  edge  out,  tip  to  the  floor.  He  was  caught 
between  duty  and  love,  between  command  and  conscience.  The  nurse 
took  a step  toward  him.  He  shrank  back.  She  took  another.  She  said  his 


name. 


116 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


He  fled. 

Two  days  later,  at  Mass,  Maria  Elena  visited  him  again.  She  was 
dressed  in  Mary  Janes  and  a pink  crinoline  skirt  and  wore  a bow  in  her  hair. 
She  had  some  questions,  chiefly  why  her  father  had  not  done  what  he  had 
promised. 

"I  cannot  kill  a man  like  an  animal, " Luis  replied  with  downcast  eyes. 
"That  would  make  me  an  animal  too." 

"An  eye  for  an  eye,"  said  Maria  Elena.  "That  was  our  agreement." 

"I  beg  your  forgiveness,  little  one,  but  I cannot." 

She  looked  at  him  in  such  a way  that  he  felt  guilty  of  being  less  than 
a man.  Then  her  expression  changed. 

"Another  way  perhaps." 

Luis  brightened.  "Yes.  Anything  but  cold-blooded  murder." 

"The  doctors  are  smart.  The  doctors  and  the  lawyers.  Smart  and 
powerful.  We  must  be  cunning.  And  patient.  We  must  plan  carefully." 

This  was  a relief  to  Luis,  who  did  not  want  a repeat  of  the  debacle  with 
the  machete.  The  thought  of  what  he  had  nearly  inflicted  on  those 
innocent  women  filled  him  with  shame. 

"Do  you  have  an  idea?"  he  asked. 

Maria  Elena  did,  but  she  wasn't  saying,  not  just  yet.  Instead,  she  gave 
him  an  enigmatic  smile,  and  for  a moment  he  got  a glimpse  of  her  as  a 
young  woman.  She  had  an  uncanny  resemblance  to  someone  he  knew,  and 
then  it  dawned  on  him  that  that  someone  was  himself,  that  his  daughter 
now  looked  just  as  he  might  have  looked  had  he  been  bom  female.  Long 
lashes,  dark  eyes,  broad  cheeks  and  lips.  Hair  the  color  of  coal.  Skin  like 
clay.  It  was  unsettling.  The  girl  had  something  up  her  sleeve,  and 
suddenly,  he  wasn't  sure  he  wanted  to  know  what. 

He  was  sitting  in  a pew  at  the  back  of  the  church.  From  the  pulpit  the 
priest  gave  the  call  to  prayer.  Reflexively,  Luis  fell  to  his  knees  and  clasped 
his  hands  together.  Organ  music  filled  the  air,  then  the  choir  began  to  sing. 
Maria  Elena  joined  in,  her  voice  soulful  and  sweet.  It  eased  her  father's 
heart  to  hear  her  sing.  Here  especially,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Lord.  What  did 
he  possibly  have  to  fear? 

A week  later,  he  shaved  his  mustache  and  made  an  appointment  to  see 
the  doctor.  He  gave  his  name  as  Luis  Flores  and  neither  the  receptionist 
nor  the  nurse  recognized  him.  He  was  ushered  uneventfully  into  the 


REVENGE 


117 


doctor's  office,  and  fifteen  minutes  later.  Dr.  Admonson  swept  in.  He  was 
a rangy  man  in  his  early  fifties  with  silver  hair,  liquid  blue  eyes  and  a 
disarming  smile.  He  shook  Luis's  hand,  glanced  at  his  chart,  which  was 
blank,  then  sat  opposite  him  at  his  desk. 

"What  can  I do  for  you,  Mr.  Flores?" 

Luis  had  rehearsed  what  to  say,  but  the  sight  of  the  doctor  unnerved 
him.  Suddenly,  he  was  back  at  the  hospital,  with  all  the  attendant  feelings 
of  helplessness,  panic  and  despair.  Rosa's  bag  of  waters  had  broken  six 
weeks  ahead  of  time,  in  itself  not  a terrible  tragedy,  except  that  labor  had 
not  followed.  The  baby  could  have  been  delivered  by  Caesarean  section, 
but  Dr.  Admonson  had  said  no,  he  wanted  to  give  it  as  much  time  as 
possible  to  mature  inside  its  mother,  whom  he  put  in  the  hospital  at 
bedrest  and  visited  daily,  monitoring  her  for  signs  of  infection  or  fetal 
distress.  None  occurred,  and  Rosa  and  Luis  waited,  a week,  then  two, 
then  three.  Their  anxiety  mounted,  and  repeatedly,  they  questioned 
the  doctor  about  the  wisdom  of  waiting  so  long.  Repeatedly,  he 
reassured  them.  And  finally  labor  arrived,  and  the  child  was  breech, 
and  instead  of  doing  a Caesarean  section  and  bringing  it  out  safely 
through  Rosa's  belly.  Dr.  Admonson,  who  decried  unnecessary  sur- 
gery, elected  a vaginal  delivery,  during  which  the  baby's  head  got  stuck, 
so  that  forceps  had  to  be  used.  Luis  remembered  the  clink  of  metal  as 
the  blades  were  engaged,  the  beads  of  sweat  on  the  doctor's  forehead, 
his  strained  words  behind  the  green  surgical  mask.  And  then  the 
tugging  of  his  daughter  through  the  birth  canal,  the  gentle  but  insistent 
pressure  that  had  inadvertently  broken  her  neck,  so  that  instead  of 
kicking  and  wailing  at  delivery,  she  had  come  out  limp  and  blue.  And 
then  the  bleeding  on  the  brain  that  followed,  and  her  being  rushed  to 
intensive  care  and  put  on  a respirator  and  other  machines  to  keep  her 
alive.  And  how  after  a week  — when  she  couldn't  survive  on  her  own 
— the  machines  were  turned  off,  and  she  was  allowed  to  die.  And  Rosa's 
tears,  and  from  her  breasts  the  rivers  of  warm  milk.  And  his  own  tears, 
and  his  rage,  and  his  vow  of  revenge. 

Dr.  Admonson  bridged  his  fingers  and  awaited  a reply  to  his  question. 
It  was  rare  but  not  unheard  of  that  a man  came  to  him  alone,  a husband 
without  a wife,  a beau  without  his  belle,  looking  for  advice.  Often,  like 
this  man,  they  were  shy.  Usually  this  meant  that  the  reason  for  coming 


118 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


involved  questions  of  fertility.  What  they  thought  of  as  their  manhood.  He 
tried  again. 

"What  brings  you  in  today,  Mr.  Flores?" 

"I  need  help,"  Luis  muttered,  which  was  manifestly  true.  It  was  also 
what  Maria  Elena  had  told  him  to  say. 

"In  what  way?"  Admonson  asked. 

Luis  stared  into  his  hands.  The  plan,  such  as  it  was,  had  been  to  ask 
for  help  and  then  to  receive  it,  in  this  way  insinuating  himself,  however 
tangentially,  into  the  doctor's  life,  thus  buying  time  to  plot  his  revenge. 
The  plan's  weakness  was  that,  beyond  this  vague  request  for  help,  he  had 
nothing  more  to  say. 

"Mr.  Flores?" 

Luis  attempted  to  elaborate.  "I  need  a doctor." 

"Of  course.  But  as  you  must  be  aware,  I am  an  obstetrician.  On 
occasion,  a gynecologist.  This  means  I take  care  of  women.  Is  there  a 
woman  involved  somehow  in  this?  A problem  at  home?  Elsewhere?  I have 
no  moral  agenda,  Mr.  Flores,  and  frankly,  there  are  few  things  that  either 
surprise  or  offend  me.  But  you  have  to  help  out.  You  have  to  speak  your 
mind." 

Luis  shrunk  from  the  doctor's  ease  of  delivery,  his  fluid  command  of 
the  situation.  His  purpose  in  coming,  ill-defined  to  begin  with,  drained 
from  him  completely.  He  felt  as  he  had  as  an  immigrant  boy  fresh  from  the 
farm,  when  the  English-speaking  school  teacher  had  upbraided  him  in  a 
language  he  did  not  understand.  His  mind  went  blank.  He  picked  at  a piece 
of  skin  in  his  palm  and  at  length  muttered  an  apology  and  got  up  to  go.  He 
looked  for  his  hat,  but  he  had  left  it  at  home.  What  could  he  have  been 
thinking,  he  wondered,  to  have  come  without  his  hat? 

To  his  surprise,  Maria  Elena  was  not  cross.  She  understood  how 
lacking  he  was  in  cunning,  how  disinclined  to  subterfuge  and  deception. 
Patiently,  she  worked  with  him,  built  up  his  courage,  rehearsed  what  to 
say.  When  in  these  practice  sessions  he  faltered,  she  reminded  him  of  the 
doctor's  offense,  appealing  to  his  pride  and  sense  of  justice.  For  maximum 
effect,  she  sometimes  appeared  to  him  as  she  had  at  the  moment  of  her 
birth,  head  grotesquely  ballooned  with  blood,  body  limp  as  a rag.  At  other 
times  she  used  a different  tactic,  coming  to  him  as  a girl,  or  a young 
woman,  splendid  in  appearance,  vivacious  and  full  of  promise.  In  this  way 


REVENGE 


119 


she  reminded  him  what  had  been  cut  short.  The  flower  that  had  been 
denied  its  bloom.  She  was  diligent  in  fanning  the  flames  of  his  deprivation 
and  discontent. 

Two  weeks  later,  wearing  a bolo  tie  and  white  cowboy  shirt  with 
mother-of-pearl  snaps,  Luis  returned  to  the  doctor.  He  apologized  for  his 
previous  behavior.  He  admitted  it  was  not  easy  saying  what  he  had  come 
to  say. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"I  want  you  to  be  my  doctor." 

Admonson  regarded  him.  "But  why?" 

Luis  faltered. 

Admonson  became  impatient.  "I  don't  see  how  I can." 

"By  saying  yes." 

"And  what  will  I do  for  you?  What  is  it  that  you  need?" 

It  was  a difficult  question,  and  Luis  waited  for  Maria  Elena's  help, 
which  she  had  promised.  Moments  later,  she  materialized,  wearing  a 
peasant  blouse  embroidered  with  finches  and  other  colorful  birds.  Her  hair 
was  wound  in  a thick  braid  and  her  face  painted  with  makeup.  She  slid 
behind  him  on  the  chair  and  eased  him  forward,  until  he  was  perched  on 
the  edge.  She  pushed  his  knees  together  in  a feminine  way  and  folded  his 
hands  demurely  in  his  lap.  She  bowed  his  head  ever  so  slightly,  in 
deference  to  the  doctor's  position  of  superiority.  She  added  a faint  sibi- 
lance  to  his  voice. 

"I  put  myself  in  your  hands.  Doctor." 

It  didn't  take  a genius  to  get  the  message.  Nor,  once  it  registered,  was 
it  hard  to  understand  why  the  man  insisted  on  being  so  vague  and  indirect. 
Admonson  chided  himself.  He  took  pride  in  his  ability  to  read  people,  and 
it  irked  him  when  he  couldn't.  He  had  been  misled  by  the  man's  attire,  his 
cowboy  boots  and  starched  shirts.  By  his  calloused  hands  and  yes,  his 
Mexican  background.  The  only  men  posing  as  women  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  these  from  a distance,  were  white  and  anything  but  shy.  He  asked  if 
Luis  had  spoken  with  anyone  else  regarding  this  matter. 

"No,  Doctor." 

"There  are  specialty  clinics,  you  know.  People  with  more  experience 
than  I have.  To  tell  the  truth,  I have  none  at  all.  You  would  be  my  first,  my 
only,  patient." 


120 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Luis  inclined  his  head  to  signify  he  took  this  as  a compliment. 

"I  really  shouldn't,"  said  Admonson,  who  was,  despite  himself, 
intrigued.  "Apart  from  a basic  standard  of  care,  it's  a question  of  common 
sense.  Simply  put,  you'd  be  better  served  by  an  expert  in  the  field." 

"Please,  Doctor." 

Admonson  resisted.  "I  could  give  you  a referral." 

Flatter  him,  whispered  Maria  Elena.  Appeal  to  his  skill.  His  reputa- 
tion. 

"You  know  how  to  treat  women, " said  Luis.  "You're  the  best  there  is. 
Everyone  says." 

Admonson  demurred. 

Luis  insisted.  "I  beg  of  you." 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Admonson. 

Tell  him  the  truth,  Maria  Elena  enjoined.  That  your  fate  is  in  his 
hands. 

"My  fate  is  in  your  hands,"  said  Luis. 

"I  hardly  believe  that,"  replied  Admonson,  flattered  nonetheless. 

Luis  inclined  his  head,  gave  a chesty  sigh  and  slowly  stood,  striking 
a posture  midway  between  disappointment  and  defeat.  "I  am  sorry  then. 
I should  not  have  come.  I should  not  have  bothered  you." 

He  turned  to  go  and  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  when  Admonson  called 
him  back. 

"If  I consent  to  be  your  doctor  in  this.  I'll  need  your  full  cooperation. 
You  understand  that." 

"Yes,  Doctor." 

"And  you're  willing  to  accept  the  risks.  Psychological,  emotional, 
physical.  Whatever.  You'll  sign  a document  to  that  effect." 

"Yes." 

Admonson  weighed  the  situation  one  last  time.  Something  didn't 
seem  quite  right,  but  he  was  not  one  to  back  down  from  a challenge.  He 
could  always  change  his  mind  later. 

"All  right.  You're  willing.  I'm  willing."  He  motioned  to  the  chair  Luis 
had  recently  vacated.  "Have  a seat.  We  might  as  well  get  started." 

Thereafter,  his  questions  became  blunt  and  sexually  explicit.  Luis's 
cheeks  burned  with  embarrassment,  and  he  would  have  run  from  the 
room  had  Maria  Elena  not  been  there  to  help  out.  She  did  the  talking;  it 


REVEXGE 


121 


was  shocking  some  of  the  things  she  said.  But  she  made  no  apology.  It  was 
necessary,  she  told  her  father.  If  he  wanted  his  revenge,  this  was  the  way. 

And  so  it  was  that  Luis  Flores,  formerly  Rodriguez,  began  his  daily 
doses  of  estrogen,  putting  his  trust  in  the  hands  of  the  man  whose  hands 
had  caused  his  greatest  grief.  Maria  Elena  appeared  frequently  the  first  few 
months  of  his  treatment  to  encourage  him  and  insure  he  kept  his 
appointments  with  Dr.  Admonson  for  his  monthly  injections.  She  was 
with  him  when,  at  the  doctor's  insistence,  he  took  the  battery  of  psycho- 
logical tests  to  determine  his  personality  profile,  his  mental  stability  and 
adjustment  potential.  She  helped  him  brave  the  furtive  curiosity  of  the 
pharmacist  who  dispensed  his  medication,  and  she  stayed  with  him 
through  the  bouts  of  nausea  caused  by  the  pills.  She  did  not  explain  the 
specifics  of  her  plan  for  revenge.  She  had,  in  fact,  little  at  all  to  say  about 
the  future.  When  Luis  asked,  she  was  either  vague  or  else  told  him  to  be 
patient,  so  that  eventually  he  stopped  asking.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the 
treatments  and  did  what  he  could  to  ingratiate  himself  to  Admonson.  As 
time  passed,  Maria  Elena  came  less  often,  until,  at  length,  for  reasons 
known  only  to  herself,  she  stopped  her  visits  altogether. 

Not  long  after,  Rosa  came  across  his  bottle  of  pills.  She  had  done  the 
laundry  and  was  piling  his  underwear  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bureau  when 
she  felt  something  in  the  toe  of  one  of  his  socks.  Normally,  she  would  not 
have  given  in  to  curiosity,  but  under  the  circumstances,  which  included 
an  increasingly  moody  and  uncommunicative  husband  and  a marriage  on 
the  verge  of  collapse,  she  felt  justified  in  investigating.  The  bottle,  which 
had  no  label,  was  half  full.  The  pills  were  small,  oval  and  white,  with  a line 
down  the  center  and  a number  embossed  above  the  line.  She  recognized 
them  as  the  same  pills  her  mother  had  been  taking  ever  since  her  ovaries 
and  womb  had  been  removed.  This  puzzled  and  alarmed  her. 

That  night,  after  the  children  were  in  bed,  she  confronted  her  hus- 
band. She  accused  him  of  having  an  extra-marital  affair,  which  the  pills 
were  somehow  connected  to.  She  lost  her  temper  and  screamed  at  him. 
This  was  most  unusual. 

Humiliated  at  being  discovered  and  stung  by  her  accusation  of 
infidelity,  Luis  was  speechless.  He  had  not  considered  the  effect  of  his 
clandestine  behavior  on  his  wife,  had  not  thought  of  much  else  but  his 
own  wounds  since  his  daughter's  death.  He  had  never  intended  to  hurt 


122 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


anyone  but  the  doctor.  Certainly  not  Rosa.  If  anything,  he  had  assumed 
that  her  suffering,  like  his,  would  be  placated  by  revenge.  Once  the  shock 
of  her  accusation  passed,  he  vehemently  denied  having  an  affair.  Lamely, 
he  tried  pretending  the  pills  were  for  someone  else.  This  only  made 
matters  worse,  so  that  finally,  he  told  his  wife  the  truth.  The  pills  were  his. 
Then  he  told  a lie. 

"They're  an  aphrodisiac." 

Rosa  found  this  hard  to  believe. 

"I  want  another  child,"  he  said. 

She  frowned.  "You've  hardly  touched  me  since  the  tragedy.  It's  hard 
to  make  babies  without  touching." 

His  mind  had  been  full  of  other  things,  he  wanted  to  say,  but  he  was 
afraid  to  tell  her  what.  So  he  said  nothing. 

"You  blame  me  for  her  death,"  said  Rosa. 

"No.  I blame  the  doctor."  He  hesitated.  "Forgive  me,  but  sometimes 
I also  blame  God." 

Rosa  was  not  surprised.  "I  worry  for  you,  Luis.  In  church  I pray  for 
your  bitterness  to  end." 

"I  pray  also,"  he  said. 

"For  what  do  you  pray?" 

He  looked  down. 

"I  am  your  wife,"  Rosa  reminded  him.  "Please,  show  me  your  face." 

With  an  effort  Luis  lifted  his  head  and  met  her  eyes.  They  were  dark 
and  steady  and  inviting  of  trust.  The  eyes  of  a woman,  he  thought,  the  eyes 
of  a mother.  He  wanted  to  be  like  her,  worthy  of  trust.  Like  the  women  he 
had  sat  with  in  the  doctor's  waiting  room.  New  mothers,  expectant 
mothers,  women  inextricably  bound  to  life. 

"I  pray  for  another  chance,"  he  said. 

Rosa  was  touched,  and  her  face  softened.  Then  something  came  over 
her.  Rarely  the  initiator  in  matters  of  sex  for  fear  of  offending  her 
husband's  manhood,  she  cast  fear  aside  and  reached  out  and  touched 
Luis's  cheek  with  her  fingertips.  She  stroked  his  skin,  the  wings  of  his 
nose,  his  lips.  He  responded  by  kissing  her  palm,  then  embracing  her.  It 
was  their  first  such  contact  in  weeks,  and  the  joy  of  it  kept  them  from 
letting  go,  until  finally  Luis  freed  an  arm  to  turn  off  the  light.  He  was 
anxious  to  put  his  wife's  mind  at  ease,  eager  to  show  his  love  further. 


REVENGE 


123 


Fleetingly,  it  crossed  his  mind  that,  hope  beyond  hope,  they  might  even 
conceive  a child. 

High  hope,  deep  despair.  When  the  time  came,  he  could  not  harden 
enough  to  enter  Rosa,  much  less  plant  the  seed.  They  tried  one  thing  after 
another,  they  sweated  and  toiled,  but  success  eluded  them,  and  finally, 
they  gave  up.  It  was  an  embarrassment  to  both  of  them,  an  admission  of 
troubles  deeper  than  they  imagined.  It  was  a long  time  before  they  tried  again. 

In  the  months  that  followed  other  changes  befell  their  relationship. 
As  his  breasts  swelled,  Luis  took  to  dressing  and  undressing  in  private,  so 
that  Rosa  would  not  see.  Once  or  twice  a week  he  took  a pill  he  had  gotten 
from  the  doctor  to  get  rid  of  the  excess  water  and  feeling  of  bloatedness  the 
hormones  caused.  On  these  days  he  was  in  and  out  of  the  bathroom  so 
many  times  at  work  that  his  boss  started  to  complain.  Fearful  for  his  job, 
Luis  took  to  taking  the  pills  at  night,  so  that  instead  of  missing  time  at 
work,  he  missed  sleep.  This  made  him  cantankerous  and  moody.  He 
became  subject  to  fits  of  temper,  and  once,  to  the  fear  and  amazement  of 
his  wife  and  children,  he  actually  broke  down  in  tears.  When  he  recounted 
this  embarrassing  episode  to  Admonson,  who  was,  ironically,  the  only 
person  in  this  time  of  distress  he  felt  capable  of  confiding  in,  the  doctor 
explained  that  it  was  probably  the  medicine  at  work.  Women  were  often 
temperamental  when  their  hormones  were  surging. 

"Am  I a woman  now?"  asked  Luis,  displaying  a naivete  that  worried 
Admonson. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "You're  a man  on  hormones.  You're  far  from  being 
a woman." 

Luis  wasn't  so  sure.  If  he  were  a man,  he  would  have  killed  this  so- 
called  doctor  long  ago. 

"Am  I a homosexual?"  he  asked. 

Admonson  regarded  him.  "What  do  you  think  you  are?" 

"I'm  following  orders." 

"Not  mine,"  Admonson  was  quick  to  reply. 

Luis  would  not  meet  his  eyes. 

"I'm  getting  a funny  feeling  here,"  Admonson  said.  "Like  you're  not 
sure  about  the  way  things  are  going.  You're  not  happy.  Maybe  we  should 
put  things  on  hold  for  right  now." 

"On  hold?" 


124 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"Stop  the  medicine.  Re-think  what  we're  doing  here." 

"I'm  doing  what  I'm  supposed  to,"  replied  Luis. 

"You  said  you're  following  orders.  Whose?" 

Luis  scolded  himself  for  saying  too  much.  This  doctor  was  cagey.  He 
made  you  think  you  could  trust  him,  made  you  almost  like  him,  then  he 
turned  the  tables,  killing  your  baby,  betraying  your  trust.  A person  had  to 
be  careful. 

"My  orders,"  said  Luis.  "I'm  doing  this  for  myself." 

"That's  the  way  it  has  to  be.  It  has  to  come  from  you.  From  inside.  It 
has  to  be  what  you  want.  What  you  truly  think  you  are." 

Admonson  was  winging  it.  By  rights  he  shouldn't  have  taken  the  case 
at  all,  but  curiosity  had  pushed  his  hand  and  now  vanity  kept  him  from 
letting  go.  He  had  done  some  reading  and  talked  to  a few  colleagues.  As 
long  as  the  treatment  was  merely  a matter  of  prescribing  hormones,  it  was 
reversible  and  relatively  safe.  He  hadn't  decided  what  he  would  do  once 
they  tackled  the  issue  of  surgery.  As  a physician  he  was  as  well-acquainted 
as  anyone  with  the  subtleties  of  the  female  form,  but  he  had  absolutely  no 
experience  at  all  in  molding  that  form  from  one  of  the  opposite  sex.  The 
knowledge  of  what  he  would  have  to  cut  was  actually  rather  unsettling. 
He  asked  Luis  if  he  had  given  any  thought  to  the  matter. 

Crafty,  thought  Luis.  Trying  to  scare  me  off.  He  sensed  the  doctor's 
trepidation,  which  made  him  glad. 

"Sometimes  I feel  like  I'm  burning  up,"  he  said,  thinking  the  news  of 
this  might  worry  the  doctor  further.  "Like  there's  a fire  in  my  skin.  A 
fever." 

"Hot  flashes,"  said  Admonson. 

Luis  frowned. 

"The  hormones,"  he  explained.  "I  did  warn  you." 

"I  don't  like  it." 

"What's  to  like?  No  one  said  it  was  easy  becoming  a woman.  Maybe 
if  you  grew  your  hair  long.  Learned  to  use  a little  makeup.  A little 
lipstick."  He  reached  for  a framed  photograph  that  sat  on  the  comer  of  his 
desk  and  held  it  out  to  Luis.  "My  wife.  She  spends  half  an  hour  every 
morning  at  the  mirror.  And  again  in  the  evening,  if  we're  going  out.  It's 
work  being  a woman.  It  takes  commitment."  He  paused,  grinned.  "But 
then  if  you're  lucky,  you  get  a man  like  me." 


REVENGE 


125 


Luis  felt  simultaneously  humiliated  and  confused.  For  want  of  a reply 
he  looked  at  the  photograph  of  Admonson's  wife,  a delicately  boned, 
elegant-looking  woman  in  her  forties.  He  wondered  what  she  did  to  stand 
up  to  her  husband.  And,  conversely,  what  attracted  her  to  him. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  get  a man,"  he  said  quietly. 

Admonson  pondered  this,  shrugged.  "No.  Of  course  not.  You're 
married."  He  took  back  the  picture.  "My  wife  and  I have  been  together 
twenty-two  years.  She's  a real  trooper.  A diamond  in  the  rough.  Don't 
know  what  I'd  do  without  her."  He  glanced  at  Luis.  "You  haven't  spoken 
of  your  own  wife  lately.  What  does  she  make  of  all  this?" 

Luis  stiffened.  The  thought  of  Rosa  made  him  defensive.  "There  are 
no  arguments  in  our  family.  Whatever  I am,  I am  still  the  head  of  the 
house." 

"It's  a man's  world,"  agreed  Admonson.  "Are  you  sure  you  want  to 
give  it  up?" 

Luis  had  never  considered  it.  True,  his  thirst  for  revenge  had  been 
hottest  early  on,  before  he  had  begun  his  treatments.  He  had  changed,  was 
changing,  but  whatever  he  ultimately  became,  he  expected  to  be  able  to 
call  back  his  former  self  on  demand. 

"I  give  up  nothing,"  he  said. 

"Ah.  A feminist." 

Luis  frowned.  "Women  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  The  ones  who  love. 
I don't  understand  you.  How  can  a doctor  of  women  not  like  women?" 

"I  have  great  respect  for  women,"  replied  Admonson.  "I'm  not  sure  I 
could  ever  get  through  labor  as  they  do.  Or  have  children  cling  like  little 
monkeys  to  my  breast.  Or  suffer  mood  swings  every  month  when  I'm 
about  to  menstruate."  He  shook  his  head  at  the  marvel  of  it  all.  "Women 
are  amazing  creations.  They  deserve  all  the  credit  in  the  world.  They  wake 
me  at  night,  they  get  me  going  in  the  morning.  I'm  with  them  all  day.  My 
life  revolves  around  women.  How  can  I not  like  them?" 

He  returned  his  wife's  photograph  to  its  spot  on  his  desk,  then  added, 
"And  they  pay  the  bills.  What  more  could  a man  ask?" 

Luis  churned  inside.  He  was  no  match  for  this  doctor,  who  parried  and 
twisted  everything  he  said.  Revenge,  it  was  clear,  would  not  come  in  the 
form  of  words.  He  stood  up. 

"I'll  take  my  shot  now." 


126 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"Of  course."  Admonson,  ever  the  gentleman,  left  his  chair  and 
extended  his  hand.  "It's  been  good  chatting.  And  don't  worry.  We'll  take 
this  thing  one  step  at  a time.  I'll  see  you  in  a month." 


HAT  NIGHT  Luis  had  a dream.  A nightmare  rather, 
I against  which  he  fought  and  flailed,  twisting  the  sheets, 
I throwing  off  the  pillow,  straining  the  plastic  buttons  on 

his  pajama  top  until,  stretched  to  the  breaking  point, 
they  popped  off.  When  he  woke,  drenched  in  sweat,  the  overhead  light  in 
the  bedroom  was  on,  because  Rosa,  hearing  him  cry  out,  had  feared  that 
something  was  wrong.  Upon  seeing  his  naked  torso,  with  the  rounded 
breasts  and  pink  nipples  of  a young  woman,  she  knew  that  she  was  right. 
She  had  let  things  go  on  too  long.  Her  husband  had  passed  beyond  help,  at 
least  beyond  hers.  She  muttered  a prayer,  crossed  herself  and  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  night  on  the  living  room  couch.  The  following  morning, 
children  in  tow,  she  moved  out. 

Luis  was  grief-stricken  and  full  of  remorse.  He  vowed  to  stop  the 
treatments.  But  each  time  he  tried,  he  failed.  On  three  separate  occasions 
he  made  a point  of  tossing  the  bottle  of  pills  in  the  garbage  only  to  find 
them  back  in  his  sock,  or  in  his  hand,  a fresh  tablet  on  his  tongue,  or 
tumbling  down  bis  throat  to  his  stomach  to  work  its  magic.  He  called  to 
cancel  his  monthly  doctor's  appointment,  but  when  the  receptionist  came 
on,  the  line  inexplicably  went  dead.  He  called  again  and  did  cancel,  but 
when  the  day  came,  he  went  anyway.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  something  he 
couldn't  control,  and  he  suspected  his  daughter's  hand  in  it,  even  though 
it  had  been  months  since  she  had  bothered  to  pay  a visit.  He  wondered 
where  it  was  all  leading.  More  than  anything,  he  prayed  that  it  would  soon 
end. 


Three  days  after  leaving,  Rosa  returned  to  the  apartment  to  pick  up 
some  clothes,  expecting  her  husband  to  be  at  work.  But,  bereft  at  his 
family's  departure,  Luis  had  called  in  sick.  The  meeting  between  them 
was  awkward  in  the  extreme.  Rosa  tried  to  get  in  and  out  without  talking, 
but,  driven  to  the  brink  by  her  husband's  relentless  apologies  and  entreat- 
ies to  return,  she  lost  control,  bursting  out  in  a torrent  of  questions,  none 
of  which  he  was  able  to  answer  to  her  satisfaction.  Was  he  sick?  she  asked. 
No,  he  replied,  not  sick.  Crazy?  No,  not  crazy  either.  He  was  afraid  to  tell 


REVENGE 


127 


her  about  Maria  Elena,  not  because  she  wouldn't  believe  the  child  might 
visit  but  because  she  wouldn't  believe  she  would  be  so  cruel  and  ruthless 
as  to  orchestrate  her  own  revenge.  Rosa  would  assume  he  was  either  lying 
or  possessed;  so  he  said  nothing. 

Given  so  little  to  work  with,  Rosa  had  little  choice.  If  Luis  wasn't 
willing  to  trust  her,  she  couldn't  very  well  trust  him.  She  needed  to  look 
out  for  herself  and  the  children,  and  thus  stood  firm  in  her  decision  to 
separate.  It  was,  she  felt,  her  duty  as  a mother. 

Luis  was  heartbroken,  though  he  couldn't  honestly  blame  her.  He 
shared  his  wife's  belief  in  motherhood  as  a sacred  trust,  and  he  made  her 
promise  to  keep  herself  and  the  children  safe.  For  his  part  he  promised  that 
all  the  trouble  would  soon  be  over.  This  made  Rosa  cry,  and  Luis  hugged 
her.  I love  you,  he  murmured.  She  squeezed  him.  I love  you  too. 

He  insisted  she  and  the  children  have  the  apartment.  He  would  find 
something  else,  a room  somewhere,  a studio.  When  the  dust  settled  a 
little,  they  would  talk  again. 

He  took  a room  in  a cheap  hotel  and  a week  later  moved  to  a flat 
occupied  by  a practical-minded  widow  from  Guadalajara  who  shared  a 
bedroom  with  her  mother  and  disabled  daughter  and  rented  out  two  others 
to  make  ends  meet.  Luis  got  a clean  room  with  a bureau,  a wooden 
armchair,  a throw  rug  and  a window  overlooking  an  alley.  Across  the  hall 
from  him  was  the  other  boarder,  a laconic  Salvadorean  gentleman  in  his 
sixties,  who  liked  to  drink  alone.  Relationships  in  the  household  were 
cordial  but  circumscribed.  Luis  left  early  for  work,  returned  late  and  kept 
to  himself.  He  sent  the  bulk  of  his  paycheck  to  Rosa.  What  little  he  had 
left  went  to  the  doctor,  the  medication  and  the  occasional  thrift-store 
shirt  or  sweater  to  accommodate  his  new  shape.  For  fear  of  running  into 
Rosa  and  the  children  he  stopped  going  to  church,  although  he  continued 
to  pray,  sometimes  feverishly,  in  his  room.  He  had  not  seen  Maria  Elena 
for  months  and  worried  that  she  had  forsaken  him.  He  longed  for  her 
reassurance  and  sense  of  purpose.  Her  wits  and  determination.  He  prayed 
that  she  return,  and  at  the  same  time  he  prayed  for  Rosa,  whom  he  missed 
dearly,  and  for  the  children,  whom  he  loved  beyond  measure.  And  he 
prayed  for  himself,  because,  of  everyone,  he  needed  it  most  of  all. 

As  the  anniversary  of  Maria  Elena's  death  approached,  he  started  to 
unravel.  The  rage  and  sorrow  and  despair  he  had  kept  inside  seemed  all  to 


128 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


bubble  up  at  once.  He  missed  work.  He  holed  up  in  his  roon.  When  the  date 
came  for  his  monthly  visit  to  the  doctor,  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  struggle 
into  some  clothes  and  get  out  the  door. 

Admonson  seemed  pleased  to  see  him.  He  asked  if  there  was  anything 
new  to  report. 

"I'm  being  poisoned,"  said  Luis. 

Admonson  became  instantly  alert.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'm  suffering.  She  has  left  me.  She  must  think  I am  worthless. 
Beneath  contempt.  Yet  I do  this  for  her." 

"For  whom?" 

"My  daughter.  My  beloved  Maria  Elena."  He  fingered  the  wooden 
cross  he  had  taken  to  wearing  around  his  neck. 

Admonson  did  not  conceal  his  alarm.  "What  daughter?  What  poi- 
son?" 

Luis  felt  close  to  bursting.  There  was  a letter  opener  on  the  doctor's 
desk.  He  could  kill  him  now.  Kill  him,  then  kill  himself.  Be  done  with  it. 

A voice  suggested  he  hold  off  a minute. 

Luis  almost  wept  with  relief.  It  was  Maria  Elena,  and  though  he 
couldn't  see  her,  he  knew  she  was  close  by.  Leave  the  doctor,  she  said. 
Leave  him  now  and  come  to  me.  The  time  has  arrived.  Come  to  me. 

Luis  trembled  with  joy.  Without  another  word  he  fled  the  doctor's 
office,  fled  the  waiting  room  full  of  mothers  and  infants,  fled  the  medical 
building  and  headed  for  the  streets.  All  that  day  and  all  the  next  the  voice 
followed  him.  It  called  to  him  in  the  wind  off  the  hills  and  the  steam  rising 
from  sidewalk  grates,  in  the  electric  buzz  of  trolley  wires  and  the  squeal 
of  car  brakes.  It  sang  to  him  in  the  hiss  of  his  shower  and  the  flush  of  his 
toilet,  in  the  fog  and  rain  and  rising  sun.  He  listened  in  rapture,  he  who  had 
been  so  forlorn.  He  begged  to  see  her  face. 

But  Maria  Elena  chose  not  to  show  herself.  Instead,  she  kept  repeating 
the  same  half-dozen  words  over  and  over,  until  Luis  grabbed  his  ears  and 
cried  for  her  to  stop.  She  did  not,  and  this  made  him  angry.  He  scolded  her, 
father  to  daughter,  occasioning  his  landlady,  who  happened  to  be  nearby, 
to  ask  who  he  was  talking  to. 

"Maria  Elena,"  he  replied. 

She  cocked  an  eye. 

"My  dead  daughter,"  he  explained. 


REVENGE 


129 


The  woman  crossed  herself  and  went  away,  but  the  next  day,  with 
apologies  for  the  inconvenience,  gave  Luis  his  notice.  Two  days  later  he 
was  out  on  the  street  and  driven  to  distraction  by  his  daughter's  relentless 
chatter.  Her  words  had  ceased  being  words,  and  the  drone  had  become 
impossible  to  bear.  In  desperation  he  made  his  way  to  his  old  apartment, 
arriving  at  the  door  just  as  Rosa  was  on  the  way  out.  She  was  dressed  in 
black. 

"I  was  wondering  if  you'd  come,"  she  said. 

"Forgive  me.  I'm  half  crazy.  I could  think  of  nowhere  else." 

"Do  you  need  a ride?" 

"I  need  help." 

This  she  could  believe,  and  though  her  husband's  urgent  manner  and 
disheveled  appearance  made  her  wary,  she  was  not  dead  in  the  heart.  She 
took  his  arm.  "Come.  We'll  go  together." 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  their  daughter's  death.  Rosa  drove  to  the 
cemetery,  where  they  were  joined  by  other  members  of  the  family, 
including  their  two  sons,  who  came  with  an  aunt.  Luis  wept  to  see  them 
again,  wept  to  see  Rosa,  wept  anew  when  the  prayer  for  Maria  Elena  was 
given.  The  girl  stopped  chattering  long  enough  for  him  to  hear.  The  force 
of  her  silence  was  overwhelming.  He  felt  light  as  a cloud.  When  the  prayer 
ended,  she  appeared  to  him  for  the  last  time. 

She  came  as  a mature  woman  and  exuded  a sense  of  contentment  and 
imminent  satisfaction.  Luis  could  not  understand  why.  Apart  from  a year 
of  waiting,  he  had  done  nothing  to  avenge  her  death.  At  best,  he  had  only 
marginally  insinuated  himself  into  the  doctor's  life,  and  to  what  effect? 
The  doctor  was  not  suffering.  Far  from  it.  He  seemed  to  have  the  upper 
hand  at  every  visit. 

It  was  August,  and  a fog-driven  wind  cut  through  Luis's  clothing.  He 
hugged  himself  and  blew  into  his  hands,  but  the  chill,  like  a tide,  crept 
inward.  Like  something  from  the  grave,  it  made  him  tremble.  The  feeling 
of  weightlessness  vanished.  Suddenly,  he  was  cold.  And  frightened.  He 
thought  his  time  had  come  to  die. 

Maria  Elena  hovered  a foot  or  two  above  the  grave.  Her  feet  were 
planted  in  air,  her  legs  slightly  spread,  her  arms  akimbo.  Her  expression 
was  resolute,  yet  there  was  a certain  playfulness  in  her  eyes. 

The  wind  picked  up,  tossing  Luis's  hair  across  his  face.  He  heard 


130 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


laughter,  then  noticed  that  a bird  now  perched  on  Maria  Elena's  out- 
stretched finger.  A sparrow.  In  its  beak  it  held  a seed. 

Maria  Elena  had  hair  the  color  of  coal.  Eyes  that  matched  the  polished 
ebony  of  her  father's  machete.  Lips  the  flesh  of  saints.  When  she  smiled, 
her  face  burst  to  life  and  the  sparrow  took  flight,  circling  once  in  a halo 
around  her  head  and  once  around  the  grave.  Then,  straight  as  an  arrow,  it 
headed  for  Luis. 

Afterwards,  he  would  remember  a parting  kiss.  An  inner  quickening. 
A warmth.  The  bird  vanished  inside  him,  and  moments  later  his  precious 
daughter,  his  treasure,  Maria  Elena  Hermosilla  Rodriguez,  was  gone. 


r 


HEY  NAMED  her  Angelica.  At  her  birth  nine 


months  later  Dr.  Admonson  used  a modified  Caesar- 
ean section.  Perhaps  this  was  because  he  had  been 
chastened  by  past  failures  with  natural  childbirth.  Per- 


haps because,  despite  an  exhaustive  search,  he  had  failed  to  locate  the 
mother's  vagina.  Whatever  the  reason,  he  exercised  the  physician's 
prerogative  to  usurp  Mother  Nature  in  favor  of  a surgical  delivery.  The  C- 
section  served  another  purpose  as  well:  it  allowed  him  to  look  inside  Luis 
to  see  just  what  the  hell  was  going  on. 

What  he  saw  was  not  so  different  from  what  he  always  saw:  a term 
infant  attached  by  a cord  and  placenta  to  a source  of  nutrition,  in  this  case 
the  blood-engorged  wall  of  Luis's  lower  intestine.  After  removing  the  baby 
and  severing  the  cord,  he  took  a sample  of  the  attachment  site  for  further 
study.  He  looked  around  for  anything  else  out  of  the  ordinary  and  finding 
nothing,  sewed  his  patient  up.  Then  he  went  to  talk  to  the  press. 

Rosa,  who  was  not  present  at  the  birth,  met  her  husband  and  new 
daughter  in  the  recovery  room.  Luis's  impregnation,  which  to  many  had 
come  as  a shock  and  embarrassment,  was  to  her  a miracle,  the  answer,  if 
slightly  outlandish,  to  her  prayers.  She  was  as  thrilled  as  any  new  parent. 
More,  perhaps,  because  she  had  just  landed  a new  job  she  would  have  hated 
to  leave,  even  for  a month  or  two.  Now  she  wouldn't  have  to,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  could  have  the  joy  of  a new  face,  a new  spirit  in  the  family. 
It  was  as  close  to  Heaven  in  mortal  flesh  as  she  could  imagine.  She  felt 
deeply  blessed. 

Luis  was  still  recovering  from  the  anesthetic  when  she  entered  the 
room.  He  didn't  completely  recognize  her,  but  she  kissed  him  anyway  and 


REVENGE 


131 


held  his  hand  while  he  slept.  The  baby  was  wrapped  in  a flannel  receiving 
blanket  and  tucked  in  a bassinet  next  to  his  bed.  When  she  started  to  cry, 
Rosa  instinctively  picked  her  up.  She  cradled  her  in  her  arms  and  held  her 
to  her  chest,  hut  the  child's  wailing  only  grew  louder.  Finally,  Luis  opened 
his  eyes.  He  motioned  to  his  wife. 

"Give  her  to  me,"  he  said  feebly. 

Rosa  complied.  "She's  hungry." 

Luis  pulled  his  gown  aside  and  placed  the  child  at  his  breast.  She 
rooted  a few  moments  before  latching  on.  Luis  felt  an  instant  of  pain,  then 
the  milk  started  to  flow.  It  was  an  incredible  sensation.  He  thought  of  all 
the  things  that  might  have  happened,  all  the  things  that  did.  Who  was  he, 
he  wondered,  to  deserve  such  a miracle?  The  Devil  had  been  inside  him. 
Now  the  Devil  had  turned  to  light. 

He  transferred  the  baby  to  his  other  breast,  where  she  promptly  fell 
asleep.  Luis  soon  followed,  and  what  he  dreamed  did  not  remember,  and 
when  he  woke  was  ravenous,  and  ate  a meal  that  was  quite  enough,  said 
the  astonished  nurse,  for  two  grown  people,  or  even,  God  forbid,  three. 


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A Scientist’s  Notebook 


GREGORY  BENFORD 

BOOM  AND  ZOOM 


T 


HE  WORLD 

Wide  Web  is  a 
mesh  growing 
faster  than  expo- 
nentially. Where  will  it  lead? 

Consider  computerized  offices, 
which  were  supposed  to  give  us 
"paper-free"  work,  but  somehow 
have  not.  I suspect  there's  merely  a 
lag  effect  operating,  though.  Paper 
prices  jumped  last  year  and  over  the 
long  haul,  as  demand  rises  and  sup- 
ply does  not,  will  continue  to  climb. 
There  isn't  very  much  land  left  for 
forest-farming.  The  United  States 
already  dominates  the  world  mar- 
ket, and  in  fact  the  country  is  more 
forested  now  than  it  was  half  a cen- 
tury ago,  despite  doubling  its  popu- 
lation in  that  time.  But  even  we  are 
feeling  the  pinch. 

I suspect  that  the  urge  to  get 
hard  copy,  despite  having  every- 
thing on  backed-up  disks,  will  fade 
in  time.  The  working  office  will 


attain  a cleaner,  swifter  look.  The 
slow  trend  toward  working  at  home 
(where  I'm  writing  this)  rather  than 
trudging  to  the  office  will  acceler- 
ate. 

But  these  are  humdrum,  pre- 
dictable facets.  What  will  it  feel 
like  to  work  in  a completely  com- 
puter-sifted world? 

Of  course,  if  you're  doing 
manual  labor  or  a skilled  craft,  not 
much  can  change.  But  for  many  of 
us,  the  future  could  be  qualitatively 
different. 

Envisioning  this  is  not  a mat- 
ter for  futurists,  who  typically  ex- 
press themselves  in  glossy  gener- 
alities. Science  fiction  does  it  bet- 
ter than  any  other  discourse.  Mak- 
ing the  reader  live  through  a pos- 
sible world  is  far  better  than  dry 
theory. 

So  in  thinking  about  this  col- 
umn, I decided  to  write  a scenario 
to  convey  my  speculations.  To 


Copyright  © 1998  by  Abbenfoid  Associates 


A SCIENTIST’S  NOTEBOOK 


133 


ground  it  I set  the  action  where  I 
live,  in  Orange  County,  California. 
Commonly  thought  to  be  conserva- 
tive, in  fact  it  is  more  libertarian  in 
tone,  with  communities  ranging 
from  the  button-down  conservative 
Orange  to  the  artistic  Laguna  Beach. 
The  growing  technological  complex 
near  my  university,  UC  Irvine,  is 
the  biggest  in  the  state  after  famous 
Silicon  Valley,  with  a focus  on  both 
computers  and  biotech.  How  might 
this  hotbed  of  progress  develop? 

Gingerly  she  climbed  into  her 
yawning  work  pod.  It  always  re- 
minded her  of  an  immense,  leering 
mouth. 

The  Colombian  coffee  was 
barely  getting  her  going.  A warning 
light  winked;  her  Foe  was  already 
up  and  running.  Another  day  at  the 
orifice. 

The  pod  wrapped  itself  around 
her  as  tabs  and  inserts  slid  into 
place.  This  was  the  latest  gear,  a top 
of  the  line  simulation  suit  immersed 
in  a data-pod  of  beguiling  comfort. 

Snug.  Not  a way  to  lounge,  but 
to  fly. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  let  the 
sim-suit  do  its  stuff. 

May  16, 2026.  She  liked  to  start 
in  real-space.  Less  jarring. 

Images  played  directly  upon  her 
retina.  The  entrance  protocol  lifted 


her  out  of  her  Huntington  Beach 
apartment  and  in  a second  she  was 
zooming  over  rooftops,  skating 
down  the  beach.  Combers  broke  in 
soft  white  bands  and  red-suited  surf- 
ers caught  them  in  passing  mar- 
riage. 

All  piped  down  from  a satellite 
view,  of  course,  sharp  and  clear. 

Get  to  work,  Myung,  her  Foe 
called.  Sightsee  latei. 

"I'm  running  a deep  search," 
she  lied. 

Sure. 

"I'll  spot  you  a hundred  creds 
on  the  action,"  she  shot  back. 

You’re  on.  Big  new  market 
opening  today.  A hint  of  mockery? 

"Where? " Today  she  was  going 
to  nail  him,  by  God. 

Right  under  our  noses,  the  way 
I sniff  it. 

"In  the  county?" 

Now,  that  would  be  telling. 

Which  meant  he  didn't  know. 

So:  a hunt.  Better  than  a day  of 
shaving  margins,  at  least. 

She  and  her  Foe  were  zoomers, 
ferrets  who  made  markets  more  ef- 
ficient. Evolved  far  beyond  the 
primitivo  commodity  traders  of  the 
late  TwenCen,  they  moved  fast, 
high-flying  for  competitive  edge. 

They  zoomed  through  spaces 
wholly  insubstantial,  but  that  was 
irrelevant.  Economic  pattern-spaces 


134 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


were  as  tricky  as  mountain  cre- 
vasses. And  even  hard  cash  just 
stood  for  an  idea. 

Most  people  still  dug  coal  and 
grew  crops,  ancient  style  grunt  la- 
bor — but  in  Orange  County  you 
could  easily  forget  that,  gripped  by 
the  fever  of  the  new. 

Below  her,  the  county  was  a 
sprawl,  but  a smart  one.  The  wall- 
to-mall  fungus  left  over  from  the 
TwenCen  days  was  gone.  High-rises 
rose  from  lush  parks.  Some  even 
had  orange  grove  skirts,  a chic  nos- 
talgia. Roofs  were  eco- virtue  white. 
Blacktop  streets  had  long  ago  added 
a sandy-colored  coating  whose  mica 
sprinkles  winked  up  at  her.  Even 
cars  were  in  light  shades.  All  this  to 
reflect  sunlight,  public  advertise- 
ments that  everybody  was  doing 
something  about  global  warming. 

The  car-rivers  thronged  streets 
and  freeways  (still  free  — if  you 
could  get  the  license).  When  parked, 
cars  were  tucked  underground.  Still 
plenty  of  scurry-scurry,  but  most  of 
it  mental,  not  metal. 

She  sensed  the  county's  inces- 
sant pulse,  the  throb  of  the  Pacific 
Basin's  hub,  pivot  point  of  the  larg- 
est zonal  economy  on  the  planet. 

Felt,  not  saw.  Her  chest  was  a 
map.  Laguna  Beach  over  her  right 
nipple,  Irvine  over  the  left.  Using 
neural  plasticity,  the  primary  sen- 


sory areas  of  her  cortex  "read"  the 
county's  electronic  Mesh  through 
her  skin. 

But  this  was  not  like  antique, 
serial  reading  at  all.  No  flat  data 
here.  No  screens. 

She  relaxed.  The  trick  was  to 
merge,  not  just  observe. 

Far  better  for  a chimpanzee- 
like species  to  take  in  the  world 
through  its  evolved,  body- wrapping 
neural  bed. 

More  fun,  too.  She  detected 
economic  indicators  on  her  aug- 
mented skin.  A tiny  shooting  pain 
spoke  of  a leveraged  buyout.  Was 
that  uneasy  sensation  natural  to 
her,  or  a hint  from  her  subsystems 
about  a possible  lowering  of  the 
prime  rate? 

Gotcha!  the  Foe  sent. 

Myung  glanced  at  her  running 
index.  She  was  eleven  hundred  creds 
down! 

So  fast?  How  could  — ? 

Then  she  felt  it:  dancing  data- 
spikes  in  alarm-red,  prickly  on  her 
left  leg.  The  Foe  had  captured  an 
early  indicator.  Which? 

Myung  had  been  coasting  to- 
ward the  Anaheim  hills,  watching 
the  pulse  of  business  trading 
quicken  as  slanting  sunshine 
smartly  profiled  the  fashionable, 
post-pyramidal  corporate  buildings. 
So  she  had  missed  the  opening  salvo 


A SCIENTIST'S  NOTEBOOK 


135 


of  weather  data  update,  the  first 
trading  opportunity. 

The  Foe  already  had  an  edge 
and  was  shifting  investments.  How  ? 

Ahead  of  her  in  the  simulated 
air  she  could  see  the  Foe  skating  to 
the  south.  All  this  was  visual  meta- 
phor, of  course,  symbology  for  the 
directed  attention  of  the  data-eat- 
ing  programs. 

A stain  came  spreading  from 
the  east  into  Mission  Viejo.  Not 
real  weather,  but  economic  vari- 
ables. 

Deals  flickered  beneath  the 
data-thunderheads  like  sheet  light- 
ning. Pixels  of  packet-information 
fell  as  soft  rains  on  her  long-term 
investments. 

The  Foe  was  buying  extra  elec- 
trical power  from  Oxnard.  Selling  it 
to  users  to  offset  the  low  yields 
seeping  up  from  San  Diego. 

Small  stuff.  A screen  for  some- 
thing subtle.  Myung  close-upped 
the  digital  stream  and  glimpsed  the 
deeper  details. 

Every  day  more  water  flowed 
in  the  air  over  southern  California 
than  streamed  down  the  Missis- 
sippi. Rainfall  projections  changed 
driving  conditions,  affected  tour- 
nament golf  scores,  altered  yields 
of  solar  power,  fed  into  agri-prod. 

Down  her  back  slid  prickly- 
fresh  commodity  info,  an  itch  she 


should  scratch.  A hint  from  her 
sniffer-programs?  She  willed  a vir- 
tual finger  to  rub  the  tingling. 

— and  snapped  back  to  real- 
space. 

An  ivory  mist  over  Long  Beach. 
Real,  purpling  water  thunderclouds 
scooting  into  San  Juan  Cap  from 
the  south. 

Ah  — virtual  sports.  The  older 
the  population  got,  the  more  leery 
of  weather.  They  still  wanted  the 
zing  of  adventure,  though.  Through 
virtual  feedback,  creaky  bodies 
could  air-surf  from  twenty  kilome- 
ters above  the  Grand  Canyon.  Or 
race  alongside  the  few  protected 
Great  White  sharks  in  the  Catalina 
Preserve. 

High-resolution  Virtuality 
stimulated  lacy  filigrees  of  electro- 
chem  impulses  throughout  the  ce- 
rebral cortex.  Did  it  matter  whether 
the  induction  came  from  the  real 
thing  or  from  the  slippery  arts  of 
electronics? 

Time  for  a bit  of  business. 

Her  prognosticator  programs 
told  her  that  with  0.87  probability, 
such  oldies  would  cocoon-up  across 
six  states.  So  indoor  virtual  sports 
use,  with  electro-stim  to  zing  the 
aging  muscles,  would  rise  in  the 
next  day. 

She  swiftly  exercised  options 
on  five  virtual  sites,  pouring  in  some 


136 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


of  her  reserve  computational  ca- 
pacity. But  the  Foe  had  already  har- 
vested the  plums  there.  Not  much 
margin  left. 

Myung  killed  her  simulated 
velocity  and  saw  the  layers  of  deals 
the  Foe  was  making,  counting  on 
the  coming  storm  to  shift  the  odds 
by  fractions.  Enough  contracts-of- 
the-moment  processed,  and  profits 
added  up.  But  you  had  to  call  the 
slant  just  right. 

Trouble-sniffing  subroutines 
pressed  their  electronic  doubts  upon 
her:  a warning  chill  breeze  across 
her  brow.  She  waved  it  away. 

Myung  dove  into  the  clouds  of 
event-space.  Her  skin  did  the  deals 
for  her,  working  with  software  that 
verged  on  mammal-level  intelli- 
gence itself.  She  wore  her  suits  of 
artificial-intelligence ...  and  in  a real 
sense,  they  wore  her. 

She  felt  her  creds  — not  credits 
so  much  as  credibilities,  the  oper- 
ant currency  in  data-space  — wash- 
ing like  hot  air  currents  over  her 
body. 

Losses  were  chilling.  She  got 
cold  feet,  quite  literally,  when  the 
San  Onofre  nuke  piped  up  with  a 
gush  of  clean  power.  A new  substa- 
tion, coming  on  much  earlier  than 
SoCalEd  had  estimated. 

That  endangered  her  energy 
portfolio.  A quick  flick  got  her  out 


of  the  electrical  futures  market  al- 
together, before  the  world-wide 
Mesh  caught  on  to  the  implications. 

Up,  away.  Let  the  Foe  pick  up 
the  last  few  percentage  points. 
Myung  flapped  across  the  digital 
sky,,  capital  taking  wing. 

She  lofted  to  a ten-mile-high 
perspective.  Global  warming  had 
already  made  the  county's  south- 
facing slopes  into  cactus  and  tough 
grasslands.  Coastal  sage  still  clung 
to  the  north-facing  slopes,  seeking 
cooler  climes.  All  the  coast  was 
becoming  a "fog  desert"  sustained 
by  vapor  from  lukewarm  ocean  cur- 
rents. Dikes  held  back  the  rising 
warm  ocean  from  Newport  to  Long 
Beach. 

Pretty,  but  no  commodity  pos- 
sibilities there  anymore. 

Time  to  take  the  larger  view. 

She  rose.  Her  tactile  and  visual 
maps  expanded.  She  went  to  split- 
skin  perception,  with  the  real,  mat- 
ter-based landscape  overlaid  on  the 
info-scape.  Surreal,  but  heady. 

From  below  she  burst  into  the 
data-sphere  of  Invest-tainment, 
where  people  played  upon  the 
world's  weather  like  a casino.  Ever 
since  rising  global  temperatures 
pumped  more  energy  in,  violent 
oscillations  had  grown. 

Weather  was  now  the  hidden, 
wild-card  lubricant  of  the  world's 


A SCIENTIST'S  NOTEBOOK 


137 


economy.  Tornado  warnings  were 
sent  to  street  addresses,  damage 
predictions  shaded  by  the  city  block. 
Each  neighborhood  got  its  own  rain 
forecast. 

A sparrow's  fall  in  Portugal 
could  diddle  the  global  fluid  system 
so  that,  in  principle,  a thunderhead 
system  would  form  over  Fountain 
Valley  a week  later.  Today,  merg- 
ing pressures  from  the  south  sent 
forking  lightning  over  mid-Califor- 
nia. That  shut  down  the  launch  site 
of  all  local  rocket-planes  to  the  Or- 
bital Hiltons.  Hundreds  of  invest- 
programs  had  that  already  covered. 

So  she  looked  on  a still  larger 
scale.  Up,  again. 

This  grand  world  Mesh  was  N- 
dimensional.  And  even  the  number 
N changed  with  time,  as  param- 
eters shifted  in  and  out  of  applica- 
tion. 

There  was  only  one  way  to 
make  sense  of  this  in  the  narrow 
human  sensorium.  Every  second,  a 
fresh  dimension  sheared  in  over  an 
older  dimension.  Freeze-framed, 
each  instant  looked  like  a ridicu- 
lously complicated  abstract  sculp- 
ture running  on  drug-driven  over- 
drive. Watch  any  one  moment  too 
hard  and  you  got  a lancing  head- 
ache, motion  sickness  and  zero  com- 
prehension. 

Augmented  feedback,  so  use- 


ful in  keeping  on  the  financial  edge, 
could  also  be  an  unforgiving  bitch. 

The  Foe  wasn't  up  here,  hover- 
ing over  the  whole  continent.  Good. 
Time  to  think.  She  watched  the 
N-space  as  if  it  were  an  entertain- 
ment, and  in  time  came  an  extended 
perception,  integrated  by  the  long- 
suffering  subconscious. 

She  bestrode  the  world.  Total 
immersion. 

She  stamped  and  marched 
across  the  muddy  field  of  chaotic 
economic  interactions.  Her  boot 
heels  left  deep  scars.  These  healed 
immediately:  sub-programs  at 
work,  like  cellular  repair.  She  would 
pay  a passage  price  for  venturing 
here. 

A landscape  opened  like  the 
welcome  of  a mother's  lap. 

Her  fractal  tentacles  spread 
through  the  networks  with  blind- 
ing speed,  penetrating  the  planetary 
spiderweb.  Orange  County  was  a 
brooding,  swollen  orb  at  the 
PacBasin's  center. 

Smelled  it  yeti  came  the  Foe's 
taunt  from  below. 

"I'm  following  some  ticklers," 
she  lied. 

I’m  ’way  ahead  of  you. 

"Then  how  come  you're  gab- 
bing? And  tracking  me?" 

Friendly  competition  — 

"Forget  the  friendly  part."  She 


138 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


was  irked.  Not  by  the  Foe,  but  by 
failure.  She  needed  something  hot. 
Where? 

’Fess  up,  you’re  smelling  noth- 
ing. 

"Just  the  stink  of  over-done 
expectations, " she  shot  back  wryly. 

Nothing  promising  in  the  swirl- 
ing weather-space,  working  with 
prickly  light  below  her.  Seen  this 
way,  the  planet's  thirteen  billion 
lives  were  like  a field  of  grass  wav- 
ing beneath  fitful  gusts  they  could 
barely  glimpse. 

Wrong  blind  alley!  sent  her  Foe 
maliciously. 

Myung  shot  a glance  at  her  in- 
dices. Down  nineteen  hundred! 

And  she  had  spotted  him  a hun- 
dred. Damn. 

She  shifted  through  parameter- 
spaces.  There  — like  a carnival, 
neon-bright  on  the  horizon  of  a 
black,  cool  desert:  the  colossal  mar- 
ket-space of  Culture. 

She  strode  across  the  tortured 
seethe  of  global  Mesh  data. 

In  the  archaic  economy  of 
manufacturing,  middle  managers 
were  long  gone.  No  more  "just  in 
time"  manufacturing  in  blocky  fac- 
tories. No  more  one-size-fits-all. 
That  had  fallen  to  "right  on  time" 
production  out  of  tiny  shops,  pre- 
fabs, even  garages. 

Anybody  who  could  make  a 


gizmo  cheaper  could  send  you  a bid. 
They  would  make  your  very  own 
custom  gizmo,  by  direct  Mesh  or- 
der. 

Around  the  globe,  robotic  prod- 
lines  of  canny  intelligence  stood 
ready  in  ill-lit  shacks.  Savvy  soft- 
ware leaped  into  action  at  your 
Meshed  demand,  reconfiguring  for 
your  order  like  an  obliging  whore. 
Friction-free  service.  The  mercan- 
tile millennium. 

Seen  from  up  here,  friction-free 
marketism  seemed  the  world's  only 
workable  ideology  — unless  you 
counted  New  Islam,  but  who  did? 
Under  it,  middle  managers  had  de- 
cades ago  vanished  down  the  suck- 
ing drain  of  evolving  necessity.  "Pro- 
duction" got  shortened  to  prod  — 
and  prodded  the  market. 

Of  course  the  people  shed  by 
frictionless  prod  ended  up  with  dy- 
namic, fulfilling  careers  in  dog- 
washing: valets,  luxury  servants, 
touchy-feely  insulators  for  the  har- 
ried prod-folk.  And  their  bosses. 

But  not  all  was  manufacturing. 
Even  dog-dressers  needed  Culture 
Prod.  Especially  dog-dressers. 

"My  sniffers  are  getting  it, " she 
said. 

The  Foe  answered.  You’re  on 
the  scent  — but  late. 

Something  new... 

She  walked  through  the  data- 


A SCIENTIST'S  NOTEBOOK 


139 


vaults  of  the  Culture  City.  As  a 
glittering  representation  of  unimag- 
inable complexities,  it  loomed:  Glo- 
bal, intricate,  impossible  to  know 
fully  for  even  a passing  instant.  And 
thus,  an  infinite  resource. 

She  stamped  through  streets 
busy  with  commerce.  Ferrets  and 
deal-making  programs  scampered 
like  rodents  under  heel.  Towers  of 
the  giga-conglomerates  raked  the 
skies. 

None  of  this  Big  Guy  stuff  for 
her.  Not  today,  thanks. 

To  beat  her  Foe,  she  needed 
something  born  of  Orange  County, 
something  to  put  on  the  table. 

And  only  her  own  sniffer-pro- 
grams  could  find  it  for  her.  The  web 
of  connections  in  even  a single 
county  was  so  criss-crossed  that  no 
mere  human  could  find  her  way. 

She  snapped  back  into  the  real 
world.  Think. 

Lunch  eased  into  her  blood- 
stream, fed  by  the  pod  when  it 
sensed  her  lowering  blood  sugar. 
Myung  tapped  for  an  extra  Kaff  to 
give  her  some  zip.  Her  medical 
worrier  hovered  in  air  before  her, 
clucked  and  frowned.  She  ignored  it. 

— And  back  to  Culture  City. 

Glassy  ramparts  led  up  into  the 
citadels  of  the  mega-Corps.  Show- 
ers of  speculation  rained  on  their 
flanks.  Rivulets  gurgled  off  into 


gutters.  Nothing  new  here,  just  the 
ceaseless  hum  of  a market  full  of 
energy  and  no  place  to  go. 

Index  check;  sixteen  hundred 
down! 

The  deals  she  had  left  running 
from  the  morning  were  pumping 
out  the  last  of  their  dividends.  No 
more  help  there. 

Time’s  a-wastin’,  her  Foe  sent 
nastily.  She  could  imagine  his  sneer 
and  sardonic  eyes. 

Save  youi  cteds  for  the  crunch, 
she  retorted. 

You're  down  thirteen  hundred 
and  falling. 

He  was  right.  The  trouble  with 
paired  competition  — the  very  lat- 
est market-stimulating  twist — was 
that  the  outcome  was  starkly  clear. 
No  comforting  self-delusions  lasted 
long. 

Irked,  she  leaped  high  and  flew 
above  the  City.  Go  local,  then.  Or- 
ange County  was  the  PacBasin's 
best  fount  of  fresh  ideas. 

She  caught  vectors  from  the 
county  drawing  her  down.  Prickly 
hints  sheeted  across  her  belly,  over 
her  forearms.  To  the  east — there  — 
a shimmer  of  possibility. 

Her  ferrets  were  her  own,  of 
course  — searcher  programs  tuned 
to  her  style,  her  way  of  perceiving 
quality  and  content.  They  were  her, 
in  a truncated  sense. 


140 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Now  they  led  her  down  a fun- 
nel, into  — 

A mall. 

In  real-space,  no  less.  Tacky. 

Hopelessly  antique,  of  course. 
Dilapidated  buildings  leaning 
against  each  other,  laid  out  in  bor- 
ing rectangular  grids.  Faded  plastic 
and  rusty  chrome. 

People  still  went  there,  of 
course;  somewhere,  she  was  sure, 
people  still  used  wooden  plows. 

This  must  be  in  Kansas  or  the 
Siberian  Free  State  or  somewhere 
equally  Out  Of  It.  Why  in  the  world 
had  her  sniffers  taken  her  here? 

She  checked  real-world  loca- 
tion, preparing  to  lift  out. 

East  Anaheim!  Impossible... 

But  no  — there  was  something 
here.  Her  sniffer  popped  up  an  over- 
lay and  the  soles  of  her  feet  itched 
with  anticipation.  Programs 
zoomed  her  in  on  a gray  shambles 
that  dominated  the  end  of  the 
cracked  blacktop  parking  lot. 

Was  this  a museum?  No,  but  — 

Art  Attack  came  the  signifier. 

That  sign...  "An  old  K-Mart," 
she  murmured.  She  barely  remem- 
bered being  in  one  as  a girl.  Rigid, 
old-style  aisles  of  plastic  prod.  Posi- 
tively cubic,  as  the  teeners  said.  A 
cube,  after  all,  was  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  stacked  squares. 

But  this  K-Mart  had  been  fe- 


shaped.  Stucco-sculpted  into  an 
archly  ironic  lavender  mosque,  fes- 
tooned with  bright  brand  name 
items. 

. It  hit  her.  "Of  course!" 

She  zoomed  up,  above  the  Or- 
ange County  jumble. 

Here  it  was — pay  dirt.  And  she 
was  on  the  ground  first. 

She  popped  her  pod  and  sucked 
in  the  dry,  flavorful  air.  Back  in 
Huntington  Beach.  Her  throat  was 
dry,  the  aftermath  of  tension. 

And  just  16:47,  too.  Plenty  of 
time  for  a swim. 

The  team  that  had  done  the 
mock-mosque  K-Mart  were  like  all 
artists:  sophisticated  along  one  axis, 
dunderheads  along  all  economic 
vectors.  They  had  thought  it  was  a 
pure  lark  to  fashion  ancient  relics 
of  paleo-capitalism  into  bizarre  ab- 
stract expressionist  "statements." 
Mere  fun  effusions,  they  thought. 

She  loved  working  with  people 
who  were,  deep  in  their  souls,  inno- 
cent of  markets. 

Within  two  hours  she  had 
locked  up  the  idea  and  labeled  it: 
"Post-Consumerism  Dada  from  the 
fabled  Age  of  Appetite." 

She  had  marketed  it  through 
pre-view  around  the  globe.  Thai- 
land and  the  Siberians  (the  last  true 
culture  virgins)  had  gobbled  up  the 


A SCIENTIST'S  NOTEBOOK 


141 


idea.  Every  rotting  'burb  round  the 
globe  had  plenty  of  derelict  K-MartS; 
this  gave  them  a new  angle. 

Then  she  had  auctioned  the 
idea  in  the  Mesh.  Cut  in  the  artists 
for  their  majority  interest.  Sold 
shares.  Franchised  it  in  the  Cutting 
Concept  sub-Mesh.  Divided  shares 
twice,  declared  a dividend. 

All  in  less  time  than  it  took  to 
drive  from  Garden  Grove  to  San 
Clemente. 

"How'd  you  find  that? " her  Foe 
asked,  climbing  out  of  his  pod. 

"My  sniffers  are  good,  I told 
you." 

He  scowled.  "And  how'd  you 
get  there  so  fast?" 

"You've  got  to  take  the  larger 
view,"  she  said  mysteriously. 

He  grimaced.  "You're  up  two 
thousand  five  creds." 

"Lucky  I didn't  really  trounce 
you." 

"Culture  City  sure  ate  it  up, 
too." 

"Speaking  of  which,  how  about 
starting  a steak?  I'm  starving." 

He  kissed  her.  This  was  per- 
haps the  best  part  of  the  Foe-Team 
method.  They  spurred  each  other 
on,  but  didn't  cut  each  other  dead  in 
the  marketplace.  No  matter  how 
appealing  that  seemed,  sometimes. 

Being  married  helped  keep  their 
rivalry  on  reasonable  terms.  Theirs 


was  a standard  five-year  monoga- 
mous contract,  already  nearly  half 
over.  But  she  already  knew  they 
would  sign  up  again.  How  could  she 
not  renew,  with  such  a deliciously 
stimulating  opponent? 

Sure,  dog-eat-dog  markets 
sometimes  worked  better,  but  who 
wanted  to  dine  on  dog? 

"We'll  split  the  chores, " he  said. 

"We  need  a servant." 

He  laughed.  "Think  we're  rich? 
We  just  grease  the  gears  of  the  great 
machine." 

"Such  a poet  you  are." 

"And  there  are  still  the  dishes 
to  do  from  last  night." 

"Ugh.  I'll  race  you  to  the  beach 
first." 

Any  scenario  leaves  out  much, 
focusing  on  a microcosm.  I made 
that  explicit  here  by  depicting  a 
workaday  world  seen  from  where  I 
live. 

The  county  has  a wide  range  of 
people.  There  is  the  largest  group  of 
Vietnamese  immigrants  in  the 
U.S.A.,  quickly  rising  to  the  top  of 
the  elite.  My  class  in  physics  for 
biology  and  pre-med  students  at  UC 
Irvine  is  a sea  of  Asian  faces;  they 
comprise  about  half  our  student 
body,  the  largest  percentage  in  the 
country. 

And  there  are  odd  little  towns. 


142 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


like  lovely  Laguna  Beach,  the  Or- 
ange of  Tim  Powers's  novels,  or 
Santa  Ana,  gang-ridden  yet  still  at- 
mospheric. Plenty  of  room  for  the 
inevitable  boomers  (a  term  dating 
from  the  Oklahoma  land  rush  a 
century  ago,  meaning  people  who 
move  in,  riding  expectations)  and 
the  high-tech  zoomers  of  this  sce- 
nario. 

Thus  in  this  vision,  I used  a 
Vietnamese  viewpoint  character, 
who  sweeps  over  the  landscape  in  a 
fashion  now  impossible,  but  swiftly 
approaching.  I deliberately  mixed 
real  and  computerized  images  here, 
to  underline  my  suspicion  that  they 
will  increasingly  overlap  in  our  per- 
ceptions of  the  world,  as  they  be- 
come harder  to  distinguish  from 
each  other. 

The  young  Myung  is  the  sort  of 
woman  who  would  become  a savvy, 
cut-to-the-chase  account  broker  in 
the  present.  She  will  use  technol- 
ogy only  when  it's  efficient  and 


germane;  she's  no  computer  nerd. 
Indeed,  the  technology  has  faded 
into  the  background  for  her,  as  good 
tech  always  does. 

So  the  notes  of  satire  sounded 
in  my  scenario  are  deliberately  gen- 
eral, despite  using  local  place-names 
and  details;  we  will  always  have  eco- 
nomic ambition,  hierarchies,  losers 
and  winners.  It's  in  our  species. 

Science  fiction  focuses  on  how 
science  and  its  descendant  tech- 
nologies affect  us.  It's  important  to 
remember  that  the  eternal  human 
themes  — even  of  avarice  and  am- 
bition — still  play  out  against  the 
changing  techno-backdrop.  Our 
machines  get  better,  but  we  remain 
much  the  same. 

Comments  and  objections  to 
this  column  are  welcome.  Please 
send  them  to  Gregory  Benford, 
Physics  Department,  Univ.  Calif., 
Irvine,  CA  92717.  For  e-mail; 
gbenford@uci.edu. 


Michael  Swanwick  is  probably  best  known  for  his  five  novels,  which  include  the 
Nebula  Award-winning  Stations  of  the  Tide  and  his  latest.  Jack  Faust.  His  short 
fiction  has  garnered  such  honors  as  a Sturgeon  Award  and  a World  Fantasy 
Award.  When  Tigereyes  Press  published  his  most  recent  collection,  A Geography 
of  Unknown  Lands,  in  a small  edition  last  year,  we  discovered  this  unusual  tale 
lurking  within  and  took  it  upon  ourselves  to  bring  it  to  you.  We  hope  you  'll  agree 
it's  a multifaceted  gem. 


Mother  Grasshopper 

By  Michael  Swanwick 

IN  THE  YEAR  ONE,  WE  CAME 

in  an  armada  of  a million  spacecraft  to 
settle  upon,  colonize,  and  claim  for  our 
homeland  this  giant  grasshopper  on 

which  we  now  dwell. 

We  dared  not  land  upon  the  wings  for,  though  the  cube-square  rule 
held  true  and  their  most  rapid  motions  would  be  imperceptible  on  an 
historic  scale,  random  nerve  firings  resulted  in  pre-movement  tremors 
measured  at  Richter  1 1 . So  we  opted  to  build  in  the  eyes,  in  the  faceted 
mirrorlands  that  reflected  infinities  of  flatness,  a shimmering  Iowa,  the 
architecture  of  home. 

It  was  an  impossible  project  and  one,  perhaps,  that  was  doomed  from 
the  start.  But  such  things  are  obvious  only  in  retrospect.  We  were  a young 
and  vigorous  race  then.  Everything  seemed  possible. 

Using  shaped  temporal  fields,  we  force-grew  trees  which  we  cut  down 
to  build  our  cabins.  We  planted  sod  and  wheat  and  buffalo.  In  one  vivid  and 
unforgettable  night  of  technology  we  created  a layer  of  limestone  bedrock 
half  a mile  deep  upon  which  to  build  our  towns.  And  when  our  work  was 


144 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


done,  we  held  hoe-downs  in  a thousand  county  seats  all  across  the  eye- 
lands. 

We  created  new  seasons,  including  Snow,  after  the  patterns  of  those 
we  had  known  in  antiquity,  but  the  night  sky  we  left  unaltered,  for  this 
was  to  be  our  home... now  and  forever.  The  unfamiliar  constellations 
would  grow  their  own  legends  over  the  ages;  there  would  be  time. 
Generations  passed,  and  cities  grew  with  whorls  of  suburbs  like  the  arms 
of  spiral  galaxies  around  them,  for  we  were  lonely,  as  were  the  thousands 
and  millions  we  decanted  who  grew  like  the  trees  of  the  cisocellar  plains 
that  were  as  thick  as  the  ancient  Black  Forest. 

I was  a young  man,  newly  bearded,  hardly  much  more  than  a shirt-tail 
child,  on  that  Harvest  day  when  the  stranger  walked  into  town. 

This  was  so  unusual  an  event  (and  for  you  to  whom  a town  of  ten 
thousand  necessarily  means  that  there  will  be  strangers,  I despair  of 
explaining)  that  children  came  out  to  shout  and  run  at  his  heels,  while  we 
older  citizens,  conscious  of  our  dignity,  stood  in  the  doorways  of  our 
shops,  factories,  and  co-ops  to  gaze  ponderously  in  his  general  direction. 
Not  quite  at  him,  you  understand,  but  over  his  shoulder,  into  the  flat, 
mesmeric  plains  and  the  infinite  white  skies  beyond. 

He  claimed  to  have  come  all  the  way  from  the  equatorial  abdomen, 
where  gravity  is  three  times  eye-normal,  and  this  was  easy  enough  to 
believe,  for  he  was  ungodly  strong.  With  my  own  eyes  I once  saw  him  take 
a dollar  coin  between  thumb  and  forefinger  and  bend  it  in  half  — and  a 
steel  dollar  at  that!  He  also  claimed  to  have  walked  the  entire  distance, 
which  nobody  believed,  not  even  me. 

"If  you'd  walked  even  half  that  far,"  I said,  "I  reckon  you'd  be  the  most 
remarkable  man  as  ever  lived." 

He  laughed  at  that  and  ruffled  my  hair.  "Well,  maybe  I am,"  he  said. 
"Maybe  I am." 

I flushed  and  took  a step  backward,  hand  on  the  bandersnatch-skin 
hilt  of  my  fighting  knife.  I was  as  feisty  as  a bantam  rooster  in  those  days, 
and  twice  as  quick  to  take  offense.  "Mister,  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  have 
to  ask  you  to  step  outside." 

The  stranger  looked  at  me.  Then  he  reached  out  and,  without  the 
slightest  hint  of  fear  or  anger  or  even  regret,  touched  my  arm  just  below 
the  shoulder.  He  did  it  with  no  particular  speed  and  yet  somehow  I could 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


145 


not  react  fast  enough  to  stop  him.  And  that  touch,  light  though  it  was, 
paralyzed  my  arm,  leaving  it  withered  and  useless,  even  as  it  is  today. 

He  put  his  drink  down  on  the  bar,  and  said,  "Pick  up  my  knapsack." 

I did. 

"Follow  me." 

So  it  was  that  without  a word  of  farewell  to  my  family  or  even  a 
backward  glance,  I left  New  Auschwitz  forever. 

That  night,  over  a campfire  of  eel  grass  and  dried  buffalo  chips,  we  ate 
a dinner  of  refried  beans  and  fatback  bacon.  It  was  a new  and  clumsy 
experience  for  me,  eating  one-handed.  For  a long  time,  neither  one  of  us 
spoke.  Finally  I said,  "Are  you  a magician?" 

The  stranger  sighed.  "Maybe  so,"  he  said.  "Maybe  I am." 

"You  have  a name?" 

"No." 

"What  do  we  do  now?" 

"Business."  He  pushed  his  plate  toward  me.  "I  cooked.  It's  your  turn 
to  wash." 

Our  business  entailed  constant  travel.  We  went  to  Brinkerton  with 
cholera  and  to  Roxborough  with  typhus.  We  passed  through  Denver  and 
Venice  and  Saint  Petersburg  and  left  behind  fleas,  rats,  and  plague.  In 
Upper  Black  Eddy,  it  was  ebola.  We  never  stayed  long  enough  to  see  the 
results  of  our  work,  but  I read  the  newspapers  afterward,  and  it  was  about 
what  you  would  expect. 

Still,  on  the  whole,  humanity  prospered.  Where  one  city  was  deci- 
mated, another  was  expanding.  The  overspilling  hospitals  of  one  county 
created  a market  for  the  goods  of  a dozen  others.  The  survivors  had  babies. 

We  walked  to  Tylersburg,  Rutledge,  and  Union  town  and  took  wagons 
to  Shoemakersville,  Confluence,  and  South  Gibson.  Booked  onto  steam 
trains  for  Mount  Lebanon,  Mount  Bethel,  Mount  Aetna,  and  Mount  Nebo 
and  diesel  trains  to  McKeesport,  Reinholds  Station,  and  Broomall.  Boarded 
buses  to  Carbondale,  Feasterville,  June  Bug,  and  Lincoln  Falls.  Caught 
commuter  flights  to  Paradise,  Nickel  Mines,  Niantic,  and  Zion. 

The  time  passed  quickly. 

Then  one  shocking  day  my  magician  announced  that  he  was  going 
home. 


146 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


"Home?"  I said.  "What  about  your  work?" 

"Out  work,  Daniel,"  he  said  gently.  "I  expect  you'll  do  as  good  a job 
as  ever  I did."  He  finished  packing  his  few  possessions  into  a carpetbag. 
"You  can't!"  I cried. 

With  a wink  and  a sad  smile,  he  slipped  out  the  door. 


For  a time  — long  or  short,  I don't  know  — I sat 
motionless,  unthinking,  unseeing.  Then  I leaped  to  my 
feet,  threw  open  the  door,  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
empty  street.  Blocks  away,  toward  the  train  station, 
was  a scurrying  black  speck. 

Leaving  the  door  open  behind  me,  I ran  after  it. 

I just  missed  the  afternoon  express  to  Lackawanna.  I asked  the 
stationmaster  when  was  the  next  train  after  it.  He  said  tomorrow.  Had  he 
seen  a tall  man  carrying  a carpetbag,  looking  thus  and  so?  Yes,  he  had. 
Where  was  he?  On  the  train  to  Lackawanna.  Nothing  more  heading  that 
way  today.  Did  he  know  where  I could  rent  a car?  Yes,  he  did.  Place  just 
down  the  road. 

Maybe  I'd've  caught  the  magician  if  I hadn't  gone  back  to  the  room  to 
pick  up  my  bags.  Most  likely  not.  At  Lackawanna  station  I found  he'd 
taken  the  bus  to  Johnstown.  In  Johnstown,  he'd  moved  on  to  Erie  and  there 
the  trail  ran  cold.  It  took  me  three  days  hard  questioning  to  pick  it  up 
again. 

For  a week  I pursued  him  thus,  like  a man  possessed. 

Then  I awoke  one  morning  and  my  panic  was  gone.  I knew  I wasn't 
going  to  catch  my  magician  anytime  soon.  I took  stock  of  my  resources, 
counted  up  what  little  cash-money  I had,  and  laid  out  a strategy.  Then  I 
went  shopping.  Finally,  I hit  the  road.  I'd  have  to  be  patient,  dogged,  wily, 
but  I knew  that,  given  enough  time,  I'd  find  him. 

Find  him,  and  kill  him  too. 

The  trail  led  me  to  Harper's  Ferry,  at  the  very  edge  of  the  oculus. 
Behind  was  civilization.  Ahead  was  nothing  but  thousands  of  miles  of 
empty  chitin-lands. 

People  said  he'd  gone  south,  off  the  lens  entirely. 

Back  at  my  boarding  house,  I was  approached  by  one  of  the  lodgers.  He 
was  a skinny  man  with  a big  mustache  and  sleeveless  white  T-shirt  that 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


147 


hung  from  his  skinny  shoulders  like  wet  laundry  on  a muggy  Sunday. 

"What  you  got  in  that  bag?" 

"Black  death,"  I said,  "infectious  meningitis,  tuberculosis.  You  name 

it." 

He  thought  for  a bit.  "I  got  this  gal,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  don't  suppose 
you  could..." 

"I'll  take  a look  at  her,"  I said,  and  hoisted  the  bag. 

We  went  upstairs  to  his  room. 

She  lay  in  the  bed,  eyes  closed.  There  was  an  IV  needle  in  her  arm, 
hooked  up  to  a drip  feed.  She  looked  young,  but  of  course  that  meant 
nothing.  Her  hair,  neatly  brushed  and  combed,  laid  across  the  coverlet 
almost  to  her  waist,  was  white  — white  as  snow,  as  death,  as  finest  bone 
china. 

"How  long  has  she  been  like  this?"  I asked. 

"Ohhhh. . . " He  blew  out  his  cheeks.  "Forty-seven,  maybe  fifty  years? " 

"You  her  father?" 

"Husband.  Was,  anyhow.  Not  sure  how  long  the  vows  were  meant  to 
hold  up  under  these  conditions:  can't  say  I've  kept  'em  any  too  well.  You 
got  something  in  that  bag  for  her? " He  said  it  as  casual  as  he  could,  but  his 
eyes  were  big  and  spooked-looking. 

I made  my  decision.  "Tell  you  what,"  I said.  "I'll  give  you  forty  dollars 
for  her." 

"The  sheriff  wouldn't  think  much  of  what  you  just  said,"  the  man 
said  low  and  quiet. 

"No.  But  then,  I suppose  I'll  be  off  of  the  eye-lands  entirely  before  he 
knows  a word  of  it." 

I picked  up  my  syringe. 

"Well?  Is  it  a deal  or  not?" 

Her  name  was  Victoria.  We  were  a good  three  days  march  into  the 
chitin  before  she  came  out  of  the  trance  state  characteristic  of  the  interim 
zombie  stage  of  Recovery.  Td  fitted  her  with  a pack,  walking  shoes,  and  a 
good  stout  stick,  and  she  strode  along  head  up,  eyes  blank,  speaking  in  the 
tongues  of  angels  afloat  between  the  stars. 

" — cisgalactic  phase  intercept,"  she  said.  "Do  you  read?  Das 
Uberraumboot  zuruckgegenerinnernte.  Verstehen?  Anadaemonic 


148 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


mesotechnological  conflict  strategizing.  Drei  tausenden  Aff  en  mit  Laseren! 
Hello?  Is  anybody  — " 

Then  she  stumbled  over  a rock,  cried  out  in  pain,  and  said,  "Where  am 
I?" 

I stopped,  spread  a map  on  the  ground,  and  got  out  my  pocket 
gravitometer.  It  was  a simple  thing:  a glass  cylinder  filled  with  aerogel  and 
a bright  orange  ceramic  bead.  The  casing  was  tin,  with  a compressor  screw 
at  the  top,  a calibrated  scale  along  the  side,  and  the  words  "Flynn  &.  Co." 
at  the  bottom.  I flipped  it  over,  watched  the  bead  slowly  fall.  I tightened 
the  screw  a notch,  then  two,  then  three,  increasing  the  aerogel's  density. 
At  five,  the  bead  stopped.  I read  the  gauge,  squinted  up  at  the  sun,  and  then 
jabbed  a finger  on  an  isobar  to  one  edge  of  the  map. 

"Right  here,"  I said.  "Just  off  the  lens.  See?" 

"I  don't  — " She  was  trembling  with  panic.  Her  dilated  eyes  shifted 
wildly  from  one  part  of  the  empty  horizon  to  another.  Then  suddenly, 
sourcelessly,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Embarrassed,  I looked  away.  When  she  was  done  crying,  I patted  the 
ground.  "Sit."  Sniffling,  she  obeyed.  "How  old  are  you,  Victoria?" 

"How  old  am...?  Sixteen?"  she  said  tentatively.  "Seventeen?"  Then, 
"Is  that  really  my  name?" 

"It  was.  The  woman  you  were  grew  tired  of  life,  and  injected  herself 
with  a drug  that  destroys  the  ego  and  with  it  all  trace  of  personal  history." 
I sighed.  "So  in  one  sense  you're  still  Victoria,  and  in  another  sense  you're 
not.  What  she  did  was  illegal,  though;  you  can  never  go  back  to  the  oculus. 
You'd  be  locked  into  jail  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

She  looked  at  me  through  eyes  newly  young,  almost  childlike  in  their 
experience,  and  still  wet  with  tears.  I was  prepared  for  hysteria,  grief,  rage. 
But  all  she  said  was,  "Are  you  a magician?" 

That  rocked  me  back  on  my  heels.  "Well  — yes,"  I said.  "I  suppose  I 
am." 

She  considered  that  silently  for  a moment.  "So  what  happens  to  me 
now?" 

"Your  job  is  to  carry  that  pack.  We  also  go  tum-on-turn  with  the 
dishes."  I straightened,  folding  the  map.  "Come  on.  We've  got  a far  way 
yet  to  go." 

We  commenced  marching,  in  silence  at  first.  But  then,  not  many 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


149 


miles  down  the  road  and  to  my  complete  astonishment,  Victoria  began  to 
singl 

We  followed  the  faintest  of  paths  — less  a trail  than  the  memory  of  a 
dream  of  the  idea  of  one  — across  the  chitin.  Alongside  it  grew  an 
occasional  patch  of  grass.  A lot  of  wind-blown  loess  had  swept  across  the 
chitin-lands  over  the  centuries.  It  caught  in  cracks  in  the  carapace  and 
gave  purchase  to  fortuitous  seeds.  Once  I even  saw  a rabbit.  But  before  I 
could  point  it  out  to  Victoria,  I saw  something  else.  Up  ahead,  in  a place 
where  the  shell  had  powdered  and  a rare  rainstorm  had  turned  the  powder 
briefly  to  mud,  were  two  overlapping  tire  prints.  A motorbike  had  been  by 
here,  and  recently. 

I stared  at  the  tracks  for  a long  time,  clenching  and  unclenching  my 
good  hand. 

The  very  next  day  we  came  upon  a settlement. 

It  was  a hardscrabble  place.  Just  a windmill  to  run  the  pump  that 
brought  up  a trickle  of  ichor  from  a miles-deep  well,  a refinery  to  process 
the  stuff  edible,  and  a handful  of  unpainted  clapboard  buildings  and 
Quonset  huts.  Several  battered  old  pickup  trucks  sat  rusting  under  the 
limitless  sky. 

A gaunt  man  stood  by  the  gate,  waiting  for  us.  His  jaw  was  hard,  his 
backbone  straight  and  his  hands  empty.  But  I noted  here  and  there  a shiver 
of  movement  in  a window  or  from  the  open  door  of  a shed,  and  I made  no 
mistake  but  that  there  were  weapons  trained  upon  us. 

"Name's  Rivera,"  the  man  said  when  we  came  up  to  him. 

I swept  off  my  bowler  hat.  "Daniel.  This's  Miss  Victoria,  my  ward." 

"Passing  through?" 

"Yessir,  I am,  and  I see  no  reason  I should  ever  pass  this  way  again.  If 
you  have  food  for  sale,  I'll  pay  you  market  rates.  But  if  not,  why,  with  your 
permission,  we'll  just  keep  on  moving  on." 

"Fair  spoken."  From  somewhere  Rivera  produced  a cup  of  water,  and 
handed  it  to  us.  I drank  half,  handed  the  rest  to  Victoria.  She  shivered  as 
it  went  down. 

"Right  good,"  I said.  "And  cold  too." 

"We  have  a heat  pump,"  Rivera  said  with  grudging  pride.  "C'mon 
inside.  Let's  see  what  the  women  have  made  us  to  eat." 


150 


FAXTASY  A.  SCIEXCE  FICTION 


Then  the  children  came  running  out,  whooping  and  hollering,  tdo 
many  to  count,  and  the  adult  people  behind  them,  whom  I made  out  to  be 
twenty  in  number.  They  made  us  welcome. 

They  were  good  people,  if  outlaws,  and  as  hungry  for  news  and  gossip 
as  anybody  can  be.  I told  them  about  a stump  speech  I had  heard  made  by 
Tyler  B.  Morris,  who  was  running  for  governor  of  the  Northern  Depart- 
ment, and  they  spent  all  of  dinnertime  discussing  it.  The  food  was  good, 
too  — ham  and  biscuits  with  red-eye  gravy,  sweet  yams  with  butter,  and 
apple  cobbler  to  boot.  If  I hadn't  seen  their  chemical  complex,  I'd've  never 
guessed  it  for  synthetic.  There  were  lace  curtains  in  the  window,  brittle- 
old  but  clean,  and  I noted  how  carefully  the  leftovers  were  stored  away  for 
later. 

After  we'd  eaten,  Rivera  caught  my  eye  and  gestured  with  his  chin. 
We  went  outside,  and  he  led  me  to  a shed  out  back.  He  unpadlocked  the 
door  and  we  stepped  within.  A line  of  ten  people  lay  unmoving  on  plain- 
built  beds.  They  were  each  catheterized  to  a drip-bag  of  processed  ichor. 
Light  from  the  door  caught  their  hair,  ten  white  haloes  in  the  gloom. 

"We  brought  them  with  us,"  Rivera  said.  "Thought  we'd  be  doing 
well  enough  to  make  a go  of  it.  Lately,  though,  I don't  know,  maybe  it's 
the  drought,  but  the  blood's  been  running  thin,  and  it's  not  like  we  have 
the  money  to  have  a new  well  drilled." 

"I  understand."  Then,  because  it  seemed  a good  time  to  ask,  "There 
was  a man  came  by  this  way  probably  less'n  a week  ago.  Tall,  riding  a — " 

"He  wouldn't  help,"  Harry  said.  "Said  it  wasn't  his  responsibility. 
Then,  before  he  drove  off,  the  sonofabitch  tried  to  buy  some  of  our  food." 
He  turned  and  spat.  "He  told  us  you  and  the  woman  would  be  coming 
along.  We  been  waiting." 

"Wait.  He  told  you  I'd  have  a woman  with  me?" 

"It's  not  just  us  we  have  to  think  of!"  he  said  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"There's  the  young  fellers,  too.  They  come  along  and  all  a man's  stiff- 
necked talk  about  obligations  and  morality  goes  right  out  the  window. 
Sometimes  I think  how  I could  come  out  here  with  a length  of  iron  pipe 
and  — well."  He  shook  his  head  and  then,  almost  pleadingly,  said,  "Can't 
you  do  something?" 

"I  think  so."  A faint  creaking  noise  made  me  turn  then.  Victoria  stood 
frozen  in  the  doorway.  The  light  through  her  hair  made  of  it  a white  flare. 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


151 


I closed  my  eyes,  wishing  she  hadn't  stumbled  across  this  thing.  In  a 
neutral  voice  I said,  "Get  my  bag." 

Then  Rivera  and  I set  to  haggling  out  a price. 

WE  LEFT  the  settlement  with  a goodly  store  of  food  and 
driving  their  third-best  pickup  truck.  It  was  a pathetic 
old  thing  and  the  shocks  were  scarce  more  than  a 
memory.  We  bumped  and  jolted  toward  the  south. 
For  a long  time  Victoria  did  not  speak.  Then  she  turned  to  me  and 
angrily  blurted,  "You  killed  them!" 

"It  was  what  they  wanted." 

"How  can  you  say  that?"  She  twisted  in  the  seat  and  punched  me  in 
the  shoulder.  Hard.  "How  can  you  sit  there  and. ..say  that?" 

"Look,"  I said  testily.  "It's  simple  mathematics.  You  could  make  an 
equation  out  of  it.  They  can  only  drill  so  much  ichor.  That  ichor  makes 
only  so  much  food.  Divide  that  by  the  number  of  mouths  there  are  to  feed 
and  hold  up  the  result  against  what  it  takes  to  keep  one  alive.  So  much 
food,  so  many  people.  If  the  one's  smaller  than  the  other,  you  starve.  And 
the  children  wanted  to  live.  The  folks  in  the  shed  didn't." 

"They  could  go  back!  Nobody  has  to  live  out  in  the  middle  of  nowhere 
trying  to  scratch  food  out  of  nothing!" 

"I  counted  one  suicide  for  every  two  waking  adults.  Just  how  wel- 
come do  you  think  they'd  be,  back  to  the  oculus,  with  so  many  suicides 
living  among  them?  More  than  likely  that's  what  drove  them  out  here  in 
the  first  place." 

"Well... nobody  would  be  starving  if  they  didn't  insist  on  having  so 
many  damn  children." 

"How  can  you  stop  people  from  having  children?"  I asked. 

There  was  no  possible  answer  to  that  and  we  both  knew  it.  Victoria 
leaned  her  head  against  the  cab  window,  eyes  squeezed  tight  shut,  as  far 
from  me  as  she  could  get.  "You  could  have  woken  them  up!  But  no,  you 
had  your  bag  of  goodies  and  you  wanted  to  play.  I'm  surprised  you  didn't 
kill  me  when  you  had  the  chance." 

"Vickie..." 

"Don't  speak  to  me!" 

She  started  to  weep. 


152 


FANTASY  &.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


I wanted  to  hug  her  and  comfort  her,  she  was  so  miserable.  But  I was 
driving,  and  I only  had  the  one  good  arm.  So  I didn't.  Nor  did  I explain  to 
her  why  it  was  that  nobody  chose  to  simply  wake  the  suicides  up. 

That  evening,  as  usual,  I got  out  the  hatchet  and  splintered  enough 
chitin  for  a campfire.  I was  sitting  by  it/  silent,  when  Victoria  got  out  the 
jug  of  rough  liquor  the  settlement  folks  had  brewed  from  ichor.  "You  be 
careful  with  that  stuff,"  I said.  "It  sneaks  up  on  you.  Don't  forget, 
whatever  experience  you've  had  drinking  got  left  behind  in  your  first  life." 

"Then  you  drink!"  she  said,  thrusting  a cup  at  me.  "I'll  follow  your 
lead.  When  you  stop.  I'll  stop." 

I swear  I never  suspected  what  she  had  in  mind.  And  it  had  been  a long 
while  since  I'd  tasted  alcohol.  So,  like  a fool,  I took  her  intent  at  face  value. 
I had  a drink.  And  then  another. 

Time  passed. 

We  talked  some,  we  laughed  some.  Maybe  we  sang  a song  or  two. 

Then,  somehow,  Victoria  had  shucked  off  her  blouse  and  was  danc- 
ing. She  whirled  around  the  campfire,  her  long  skirts  lifting  up  above  her 
knees  and  occasionally  flirting  through  the  flames  so  that  the  hem 
browned  and  smoked  but  never  quite  caught  fire. 

This  wildness  seemed  to  come  out  of  nowhere.  I watched  her,  alarmed 
and  aroused,  too  drunk  to  think  clearly,  too  entranced  even  to  move. 

Finally  she  collapsed  gracefully  at  my  feet.  The  firelight  was  red  on 
her  naked  back,  shifting  with  each  gasping  breath  she  took.  She  looked  up 
at  me  through  her  long,  sweat-tangled  hair,  and  her  eyes  were  like  amber, 
dark  as  cypress  swamp  water,  brown  and  bottomless.  Eyes  a man  could 
drown  in. 

I pulled  her  toward  me.  Laughing,  she  surged  forward,  collapsing  upon 
me,  tumbling  me  over  backward,  fumbling  with  my  belt  and  then  the  fly 
of  my  jeans.  Then  she  had  my  cock  out  and  stiff  and  I'd  pushed  her  skirt 
up  above  her  waist  so  that  it  seemed  she  was  wearing  nothing  but  a thick 
red  sash.  And  I rolled  her  over  on  her  back  and  she  was  reaching  down 
between  her  legs  to  guide  me  in  and  she  was  smiling  and  lovely. 

I plunged  deep,  deep,  deep  into  her,  and  oh  god  but  it  felt  fine.  Like  that 
eye-opening  shock  you  get  when  you  plunge  into  a cold  lake  for  the  first 
time  on  a hot  summer's  day  and  the  water  wraps  itself  around  you  and 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


153 


feels  so  impossibly  good.  Only  this  was  warm  and  slippery-slick  and  a 
thousand  times  better.  Then  I was  telling  her  things,  telling  her  I needed 
her,  I wanted  her,  I loved  her,  over  and  over  again. 

I awoke  the  next  morning  with  a raging  hangover.  Victoria  was  sitting 
in  the  cab  of  the  pickup,  brushing  her  long  white  hair  in  the  rear- view 
mirror  and  humming  to  herself. 

"Well,"  she  said,  amused.  "Look  what  the  cat  dragged  in.  There's 
water  in  the  jerrycans.  Have  yourself  a drink.  I expect  we  could  also  spare 
a cup  for  you  to  wash  your  face  with." 

"Look,"  I said.  "I'm  sorry  about  last  night." 

"No  you're  not." 

"I  maybe  said  some  foolish  things,  but  — " 

Her  eyes  flashed  storm-cloud  dark.  "You  weren't  speaking  near  so 
foolish  then  as  you  are  now.  You  meant  every  damn  word,  and  I'm  holding 
you  to  them."  Then  she  laughed.  "You'd  best  get  at  that  water.  You  look 
hideous." 

So  I dragged  myself  off. 

Overnight,  Victoria  had  changed.  Her  whole  manner,  the  way  she 
held  herself,  even  the  way  she  phrased  her  words,  told  me  that  she  wasn't 
a child  anymore.  She  was  a woman. 

The  thing  I'd  been  dreading  had  begun. 

"Resistance  is  useless,"  Victoria  read.  "For  mine  is  the  might  and 
power  of  the  Cosmos  Itself!"  She'd  found  a comic  book  stuck  back  under 
the  seat  and  gone  through  it  three  times,  chuckling  to  herself,  while  the 
truck  rattled  down  that  near-nonexistent  road.  Now  she  put  it  down.  "Tell 
me  something,"  she  said.  "How  do  you  know  your  magician  came  by  this 
way?" 

"I  just  know  is  all,"  I said  curtly.  I'd  given  myself  a shot  of  B-complex 
vitamins,  but  my  head  and  gut  still  felt  pretty  ragged.  Nor  was  it 
particularly  soothing  having  to  drive  this  idiot  truck  one-armed.  And, 
anyway,  I couldn't  say  just  how  I knew.  It  was  a feeling  I had,  a certainty. 

"I  had  a dream  last  night.  After  we,  ummmm,  danced." 

I didn't  look  at  her. 

"I  was  on  a flat  platform,  like  a railroad  station,  only  enormous.  It 


154 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Stretched  halfway  to  infinity.  There  were  stars  all  around  me,  thicker  and 
more  colorful  than  I'd  ever  imagined  them.  Bright  enough  to  make  your 
eyes  ache.  Enormous  machines  were  everywhere,  golden,  spaceships  I 
suppose.  They  were  taking  off  and  landing  with  delicate  little  puffs  of  air, 
like  it  was  the  easiest  thing  imaginable  to  do.  My  body  was  so  light  I felt 
like  I was  going  to  float  up  among  them.  You  ever  hear  of  a place  like  that? " 

"No." 

"There  was  a man  waiting  for  me  there.  He  had  the  saddest  smile,  but 
cold,  cruel  eyes.  Hello,  Victoria,  he  said,  and  How  did  you  know  my  name, 
I asked.  Oh,  I keep  a close  eye  on  Daniel,  he  said.  I'm  grooming  him  for  an 
important  job.  Then  he  showed  me  a syringe.  Do  you  know  what's  in  here? 
he  asked  me.  The  liquid  in  it  was  so  blue  it  shone."  She  fell  silent. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  just  shook  my  head.  Mortality,  he  said.  It's  an  improved  version  of 
the  drug  you  shot  yourself  up  with  fifty  years  ago.  Tell  Daniel  it'll  be 
waiting  for  him  at  Sky  T erminus,  where  the  great  ships  come  and  go.  That 
was  all.  You  think  it  means  anything?" 

I shook  my  head. 

She  picked  up  the  comic  book,  flipped  it  open  again.  "Well,  anyway, 
it  was  a strange  dream." 

That  night,  after  doing  the  dishes,  I went  and  sat  down  on  the  pickup's 
sideboard  and  stared  into  the  fire,  thinking.  Victoria  came  and  sat  down 
beside  me.  She  put  a hand  on  my  leg.  It  was  the  lightest  of  touches,  but  it 
sent  all  my  blood  rushing  to  my  cock. 

She  smiled  at  that  and  looked  up  into  my  eyes.  "Resistance  is 
useless,"  she  said. 

Afterward  we  lay  together  between  blankets  on  the  ground,  looking 
up  at  the  night  sky.  It  came  to  me  then  that  being  taken  away  from  normal 
life  young  as  I had  been,  all  my  experience  with  love  had  come  before  the 
event  and  all  my  experience  with  sex  after,  and  that  I'd  therefore  never 
before  known  them  both  together.  So  that  in  this  situation  I was  as  naive 
and  unprepared  for  what  was  happening  to  us  as  Victoria  was. 

Which  was  how  I admitted  to  myself  I loved  Victoria.  At  the  time  it 
seemed  the  worst  possible  thing  that  could've  happened  to  me. 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


155 


We  saw  it  for  the  first  time  that  next  afternoon.  It  began  as  a giddy 
feeling,  like  a mild  case  of  vertigo,  and  a vague  thickening  at  the  center  of 
the  sky  as  if  it  were  going  dark  from  the  inside  out.  This  was  accompanied 
by  a bulging  up  of  the  horizon,  as  if  God  Himself  had  placed  hands  flat  on 
either  edge  and  leaned  forward,  bowing  it  upward. 

Then  my  inner  ear  knew  that  the  land  which  had  been  flat  as  flat  for 
all  these  many  miles  was  now  slanting  downhill  all  the  way  to  the 
horizon.  That  was  the  gravitational  influence  of  all  that  mass  before  us. 
Late  into  the  day  it  just  appeared.  It  was  like  a conjuring  trick.  One 
moment  it  wasn't  there  at  all  and  then,  with  the  slightest  of  perceptual 
shifts,  it  dominated  the  vision.  It  was  so  distant  that  it  took  on  the  milky 
backscatter  color  of  the  sky  and  it  went  up  so  high  you  literally  couldn't 
see  the  top.  It  was  — I knew  this  now  — our  destination: 

The  antenna. 

Even  driving  the  pickup  truck,  it  took  three  days  after  first  sighting  to 
reach  its  base. 

On  the  morning  of  one  of  those  days,  Victoria  suddenly  pushed  aside 
her  breakfast  and  ran  for  the  far  side  of  the  truck.  That  being  the  only 
privacy  to  be  had  for  hundreds  of  miles  around. 

I listened  to  her  retching.  Knowing  there  was  only  one  thing  it  could 
be. 

She  came  back,  pale  and  shaken.  I got  a plastic  collection  cup  out  of 
my  bag.  "Pee  into  this,"  I told  her.  When  she  had,  I ran  a quick  diagnostic. 
It  came  up  positive. 

"Victoria,"  I said.  "I've  got  an  admission  to  make.  I haven't  been 
exactly  straight  with  you  about  the  medical  consequences  of 
your... condition." 

It  was  the  only  time  I ever  saw  her  afraid.  "My  God,"  she  said,  "What 
is  it?  Tell  me!  What's  happening  to  me?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  you're  pregnant." 

There  were  no  roads  to  the  terminus,  for  all  that  it  was  visible  from 
miles  off.  It  lay  nestled  at  the  base  of  the  antenna,  and  to  look  at  the  empty 
and  trackless  plains  about  it,  you'd  think  there  was  neither  reason  for  its 
existence  nor  possibility  of  any  significant  traffic  there. 

Yet  the  closer  we  got,  the  more  people  we  saw  approaching  it.  They 


156 


FANTASY  A SCIENCE  FICTION 


appeared  out  of  the  everywhere  and  nothingness  like  hydrogen  atoms 
being  pulled  into  existence  in  the  stressed  spaces  between  galaxies,  or  like 
shards  of  ice  crystallizing  at  random  in  supercooled  superpure  water. 
You'd  see  one  far  to  your  left,  maybe  strolling  along  with  a walking  stick 
slung  casually  over  one  shoulder  and  a gait  that  just  told  you  she  was 
whistling.  Then  beyond  her  in  the  distance  a puff  of  dust  from  what  could 
only  be  a half-track.  And  to  the  right,  a man  in  a wide-brimmed  hat  sitting 
ramrod-straight  in  the  saddle  of  a native  parasite  larger  than  any  elephant. 
With  every  hour  a different  configuration,  and  all  converging. 

Roads  materialized  underfoot.  By  the  time  we  arrived  at  the  terminus, 
they  were  thronged  with  people. 

The  terminal  building  itself  was  as  large  as  a city,  all  gleaming  white 
marble  arches  and  colonnades  and  parapets  and  towers.  Pennants  snapped 
in  the  wind.  Welcoming  musicians  played  at  the  feet  of  the  columns.  An 
enormous  holographic  banner  dopplering  slowly  through  the  rainbow 
from  infrared  to  ultraviolet  and  back  again,  read: 

Byzantium  Port  Authority 
IVIagnetic-Levitation  Mass  Transit  Division 
Ground  Terminus 

Somebody  later  told  me  it  provided  employment  for  a hundred 
thousand  people,  and  I believed  him. 

Victoria  and  I parked  the  truck  by  the  front  steps.  I opened  the  door 
for  her  and  helped  her  gingerly  out.  Her  belly  was  enormous  by  then,  and 
her  sense  of  balance  was  off.  We  started  up  the  steps.  Behind  us,  a 
uniformed  lackey  got  in  the  pickup  and  drove  it  away. 

The  space  within  was  grander  than  could  have  been  supported  had  the 
terminus  not  been  located  at  the  cusp  of  antenna  and  forehead,  where  the 
proximate  masses  each  canceled  out  much  of  the  other's  attraction.  There 
were  countless  ticket  windows,  all  of  carved  mahogany.  I settled  Victoria 
down  on  a bench — her  feet  were  tender — and  went  to  stand  in  line.  When 
I got  to  the  front,  the  ticket-taker  glanced  at  a computer  screen  and  said, 
"May  I help  you,  sir?" 

"Two  tickets,  first-class.  Up." 

He  tapped  at  the  keyboard  and  a little  device  spat  out  two  crisp 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


157 


pasteboard  tickets.  He  slid  them  across  the  polished  brass  counter,  and  I 
reached  for  my  wallet.  "How  much?"  I said. 

He  glanced  at  his  computer  and  shook  his  head.  "No  charge  for  you, 
Mister  Daniel.  Professional  courtesy." 

"How  did  you  know  my  name?" 

"You're  expected."  Then,  before  I could  ask  any  more  questions, 
"That's  all  I can  tell  you,  sir.  I can  neither  speak  nor  understand  your 
language.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  converse  with  you." 

"Then  what  the  hell,"  I said  testily,  "are  we  doing  now?" 

He  flipped  the  screen  around  for  me  to  see.  On  it  was  a verbatim 
transcript  of  our  conversation.  The  last  line  was:  I SIMPLY  READ 
WHAT'S  ON  THE  SCREEN,  SIR. 

Then  he  turned  it  back  toward  himself  and  said,  "I  simply  read 
what's  — " 

"Yeah,  yeah,  I know,"  I said.  And  went  back  to  Victoria. 

Even  at  mag-lev  speeds,  it  took  two  days  to  travel  the 
full  length  of  the  antenna.  To  amuse  myself,  I periodi- 
cally took  out  my  gravitometer  and  made  readings. 
You'd  think  the  figures  would  diminish  exponentially 
as  we  climbed  out  of  the  gravity  well.  But  because  the  antennae  swept 
backward,  over  the  bulk  of  the  grasshopper,  rather  than  forward  and  away, 
the  gravitational  gradient  of  our  journey  was  quite  complex.  It  lessened 
rapidly  at  first,  grew  temporarily  stronger,  and  then  lessened  again,  in  the 
complex  and  lovely  flattening  sine- wave  known  as  a Sheffield  curve.  You 
could  see  it  reflected  in  the  size  of  the  magnetic  rings  we  flashed  through, 
three  per  minute,  how  they  grew  skinnier  then  fatter  and  finally  skinnier 
still  as  we  flew  upward. 

On  the  second  day,  Victoria  gave  birth.  It  was  a beautiful  child,  a boy. 
I wanted  to  name  him  Hector,  after  my  father,  but  Victoria  was  set  on 
Jonathan,  and  as  usual  I gave  in  to  her. 

Afterward,  though,  I studied  her  features.  There  were  crow's-feet  at 
the  comers  of  her  eyes,  or  maybe  "laugh  lines"  was  more  appropriate, 
given  Victoria's  personality.  The  lines  to  either  side  of  her  mouth  had 
deepened.  Her  whole  face  had  a haggard  cast  to  it.  Looking  at  her,  I felt  a 
sadness  so  large  and  pervasive  it  seemed  to  fill  the  universe. 


158 


FANTASY  A.  SCIENCE  FICTION 


She  was  aging  along  her  own  exponential  curve.  The  process  was 
accelerating  now,  and  I was  not  at  all  certain  she  would  make  it  to  Sky 
Terminus.  It  would  be  a close  thing  in  either  case. 

I could  see  that  Victoria  knew  it  too.  But  she  was  happy  as  she  hugged 
our  child.  "It's  been  a good  life,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you  could  have  grown 
with  me  — don't  pout,  you're  so  solemn,.Daniel!  — but  other  than  that  I 
have  no  complaints." 

I looked  out  the  window  for  a minute.  I had  known  her  for  only  — 
what?  — a week,  maybe.  But  in  that  brief  time  she  had  picked  me  up, 
shaken  me  off,  and  turned  my  life  around.  She  had  changed  everything. 
When  I looked  back,  I was  crying. 

"Death  is  the  price  we  pay  for  children,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "Down 
below,  they've  made  death  illegal.  But  they're  only  fooling  themselves. 
They  think  it's  possible  to  live  forever.  They  think  there  are  no  limits  to 
growth.  But  everything  dies  — people,  stars,  the  universe.  And  once  it's 
over,  all  lives  are  the  same  length." 

"I  guess  I'm  just  not  so  philosophical  as  you.  It's  a damned  hard  thing 
to  lose  your  wife." 

"Well,  at  least  you  figured  that  one  out." 

"What  one? 

"That  I'm  your  wife."  She  was  silent  a moment.  Then  she  said,  "I  had 
another  dream.  About  your  magician.  And  he  explained  about  the  drug. 
The  one  he  called  mortality." 

"Huh,"  I said.  Not  really  caring. 

"The  drug  I took,  you  wake  up  and  you  bum  through  your  life  in  a 
matter  of  days.  With  the  new  version,  you  wake  up  with  a normal  human 
lifespan,  the  length  people  had  before  the  immortality  treatments.  One 
hundred  fifty,  two  hundred  years  — that's  not  so  immediate.  The  suicides 
are  kept  alive  because  their  deaths  come  on  so  soon,-  it's  too  shocking  to 
the  survivors'  sensibilities.  The  new  version  shows  its  effects  too  slowly 
to  be  stopped." 

I stroked  her  long  white  hair.  So  fine.  So  very,  very  brittle.  "Let's  not 
talk  about  any  of  this." 

Her  eyes  blazed  "Let's  do!  Don't  pretend  to  be  a fool,  Daniel.  People 
multiply.  There's  only  so  much  food,  water,  space.  If  nobody  dies,  there'll 
come  a time  when  everybody  dies."  Then  she  smiled  again,  fondly,  the 


MOTHER  GRASSHOPPER 


159 


way  you  might  at  a petulent  but  still  promising  child.  "You  know  what's 
required  of  you,  Daniel.  And  I'm  proud  of  you  for  being  worthy  of  it." 

Sky  Terminus  was  enormous,  dazzling,  beyond  description.  It  was 
exactly  like  in  Vickie's  dream.  I helped  her  out  onto  the  platform.  She 
could  barely  stand  by  then,  but  her  eyes  were  bright  and  curious.  Jonathan 
was  asleep  agaiiiSt  my  chest  in  a baby-sling. 

Whatever  held  the  atmosphere  to  the  platform,  it  offered  no  resistence 
to  the  glittering,  brilliantly  articulated  ships  that  rose  and  descended  from 
all  parts.  Strange  cargoes  were  unloaded  by  even  stranger  longshoremen. 

"I'm  not  as  excited  by  all  this  as  I would've  been  when  I was  younger, " 
Victoria  murmured.  "But  somehow  I find  it  more  satisfying.  Does  that 
make  sense  to  you?" 

I began  to  say  something.  But  then,  abruptly,  the  light  went  out  of  her 
eyes.  Stiffening,  she  stared  straight  ahead  of  herself  into  nothing  that  I 
could  see.  There  was  no  emotion  in  her  face  whatsoever. 

"Vickie?"  I said. 

Slowly,  she  tumbled  to  the  ground. 

It  was  then,  while  I stood  stunned  and  unbelieving,  that  the  magician 
came  walking  up  to  me. 

In  my  imagination  I'd  run  through  this  scene  a thousand  times; 
Leaving  my  bag  behind,  I stumbled  off  the  train,  toward  him.  He  made  no 
move  to  escape.  I flipped  open  my  jacket  with  a shrug  of  the  shoulder,  drew 
out  the  revolver  with  my  good  hand,  and  fired. 

Now,  though... 

He  looked  sadly  down  at  Victoria's  body  and  put  an  arm  around  my 
shoulders. 

"God,"  he  said,  "don't  they  just  break  your  heart?" 

I stayed  on  a month  at  the  Sky  Terminus  to  watch  my  son  grow  up. 
Jonathan  died  without  offspring  and  was  given  an  orbital  burial.  His  coffin 
circled  the  grasshopper  seven  times  before  the  orbit  decayed  and  it 
scratched  a bright  meteoric  line  down  into  the  night.  The  flare  lasted 
about  as  long  as  would  a struck  sulfur  match. 

He'd  been  a good  man,  with  a wicked  sense  of  humor  that  never  came 
from  my  side  of  the  family. 


160 


FANTASY  & SCIENCE  FICTION 


So  now  I wander  the  world.  Civilizations  rise  and  fall  about  me.  Only 
I remain  unchanged.  Where  things  haven't  gotten  too  bad,  I scatter 
mortality.  Where  they  have  I unleash  disease. 

I go  where  I go  and  I do  my  job.  The  generations  rise  up  like  wheat 
before  me,  and  like  a harvester  I mow  them  down.  Sometimes  — not  often 
— I go  off  by  myself,  to  think  and  rememben  Then  I stare  up  into  the  night, 
into  the  colonized  universe,  until  the  tears  rise  up  in  my  sight  and  drown 
the  swarming  stars. 

I am  Death  and  this  is  my  story.  “T 


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Astute  readers  of  this  magazine  have  probably 
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from  the  SF  field. 

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A more  familiar  name  to  most  readers  is  Bruce  Sterling,  whose 
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tale  was  published  once  already,  but  our  knowledge  of  Japanese 
wasn't  good  enough  to  make  sense  of  the  version  published  in 
Hayakawa  SF  last  year.  The  story  makes  lots  of  sense  in  English — 
perhaps  too  much  sense  nowadays. 

And  here  are  some  more  familiar  names:  Mike  Resnick,  Kristine 
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You  can  look  forward  to  new  stories  from  them  all  in  the  months 
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